Hypnagogia
by Calixxe
Summary: She doesn't understand anything. She doesn't see yet she can hear, she can breathe. In this state, she's calm. She only senses. But when her mind drifts too far, when she sleeps, she knows. She knows too much. And her freedom is dire now. She sleeps.
1. Prologue - The first night

Eyes closed. Mouth closed. Heart closed. Everything, so much, all closed. She feels at peace, alone, in her too big bed for a too small room. She likes it. Not sleeping, because when she sleeps, it's all too late, but when she awaits for what's next to come. She likes it when her body stays still above the covers, cooled down by the night air. Yet she likes the warmth her body exhales, heating her covers, her pillows, the thin breeze flying around her. She likes everything on her room right now. Everything, at this specific moment. She's awake yet she sleeps. She hears, she senses, she almost sees the light coming from the window, yet she can't move, can't talk, can't think. She only feels. And all those peaceful sensations, those light shivers, the sheets flying around her, the stars illuminating her presence, the moon eyeing her from afar. She feels all those eyes watching over her, covering her pale body. She likes it. No, she absolutely loves it. Everything. So much.

Yet, she soon feels her mind drifting, every sense disappearing slowly. They drift away, let her be, leaving her alone in the darkness that is her head. Her thoughts come back, and she knows again. She dreams. She sees the day again, sees her parents, mouth smiling, eyes wide, tears falling. She sees the letter, on the table, opened carefully. A location she couldn't recognize, a name she didn't know. Black letters, all written with love and expectation. She sees the words, the sentences, all put together with good conjugation, good poetry, good lies. She sees her hand trembling, she sees her tears soaking the white paper, erasing the signature. She sees her parents again, they hug her tightly. And she sees herself, hugging them back. She sees the disgust in her eyes, the joy forcefully painted on her traits. And her words, her words. Blatant, bleeding, every syllable hurts more and more. It tears her skin apart, cuts her fingers where she touches the letter. And, while she sees herself hugging them with more force and fear, she sees the letter slowly slipping away from her grip, plummeting gracefully, hitting silently the ground. Her tears are heavier. She knows. Because the sound they make when they hit the ground hurts her ears and mind. And it's a serenade of tears that plays in her head. Too loud, way too loud.

She chokes. Her eyes open, her body jerks away from the burning sheets, freezing because of the wind. She bashfully closes her window and breathes. Her senses are back. She's awake. They're awake, too. She sees the wind, hears every molecule, feels every bug crawling down her spine, legs, tickling her naked feet. She puts socks on, clothes on, and even if clothes seem to burn her alive, cutting her, she moves to her desk, ignoring the friction every movement creates. She doesn't want to touch the bed. It scares her. From her desk, she can see little paper clips. Dozens of them, tracing her silhouette. They're gray, shining under the moon's light, or is it under the spotlights right across her room ? She doesn't really know, doesn't really care. She'll have to take all of them back and throw them away, once again. She hates it. She senses so much now. Fear, apprehension, guilt, anger, sadness, hesitation, regret. She senses those omnipresent feelings more than when she goes to sleep. And, as she sees the letter, lovingly folded with a kitsch golden ribbon, she doesn't know what's worse. When she sleeps or when she wakes up. When she sees or when she feels. She doesn't know. She doesn't care, or she can't too much. She hates, no, despises it. This situation, her parents' excitement, her own hatred against her own words.

"Mother, father, I can't..."

Yet she has to. She feels them again, those acid tears burning her eyes, blinding her. She likes them. At least, she can loose one sense thanks to them. And, under the darkness of her room, she knows again. She knows too much yet not enough. Momo knows. Yet, Momo is ignorant. Momo wants to go back to this state, the one where she can't think but can hear, can feel, where everything seems so sweet, so delightful. And the state where, sometimes, she can't even breathe. Momo wants that. Stop her breath.


	2. The first day

Sleep wasn't an important part of her schedule anymore. Eating, working, training were still the most important ones. But not sleeping. Sleeping was terrifying, painful. So she decided to simply erase it from her habits. She knew too well it wouldn't last long, a simple human body couldn't survive with this primal need. She knew she would get some sort of sleep tonight, she wasn't stupid. She knew too how, to use her quirk correctly, she needed to eat a lot more than an average teen and to sleep correctly. Yet just the idea of slipping away from her beloved state felt painful, like a daily sacrifice. So, as for now, sleep wouldn't be her goal of the day.

"Yaomomo, are you listening ?"

"Ah ?" Momo gasps slightly, looking up at Jirou with surprise and guilt. "No, sorry, I wasn't. Can you say it again ?"

"Yeah, I saw that," her voice seems too far, too weak. Momo wonders, for a moment, if she wasn't lacking sleep. "I said, we're going out to see a movie tonight. Don't know which one though. Do you want to come with us ?"

"Aizawa gave you the permission ?"

"He doesn't really care as long as we come back you know, he's not that responsible when it comes to follow the school rules."

Momo thinks for a moment. Hanging out with them meant avoiding sleep, but it would also trouble her state, the one she waits everyday for now. But she needs to go out, at least one night. For her own sake, for her built reputation, and to maintain a correct relationship with her classmates. She sighs.

"Why not. Who's coming ?"

"Well, Hagakure, Mina, Tsuyu, Midoriya, Ochako, Bakugou and Todoroki," her voice seems nearer now, but also heavier. It echoes against the thin white walls of the class. It feels wrong yet familiar. "It'll be fun, you'll see !"

Fool, fool, shouldn't have said yes. She doesn't hate it, but fears it. Aizawa arrives, pushing sleepily the colossal door away, his yellow sleeping bag on his shoulders. He calls everyone and announces the day. Smooth, quiet day. No practice, no exercises, it will all come later. Tomorrow, he says. His voice is far, too. Momo doesn't understand. Words are different, modified, alienated, they whisper something else. She tries to focus but Aizawa's voice is replaced by another voice, more feminine. It's soothing, it's familiar, it's… Her mother's voice, resonating through her teacher's throat. She winces, closes her eyes. Words are like blades, billion of them, piercing her ears, making them bleed, showing to the world how she should just obey. Words hurt so much.

"You'll be happy, you'll see. He's kind, quit handsome for his age, his family is healthy and his quirk is powerful. Mind control ! You see ? Creation and mind control, just think about all the possibilities !"

She gags. It's all like a bad dub, a voice that doesn't fit the character. It's not synchronized, it's uncomfortable. It would just end with a toxic relationship, based on lies, deception, boredom. Everything, so much could go wrong. So much. It's too fast again. Her throat closes. Her head hurts. Her ears buzz. There's a rambling inside her head, getting louder, too loud, she winces again and again. Her hand writes something, surely notes that she wouldn't understand. She lies to her class, a class she wrongly thinks doesn't care, a class that can fight endless villains but can't see through her saw for Todoroki, they saw for Bakugou, they saw for Midoriya, they saw for Tenya, but don't, can't, won't see through her little eyes silently pleading for help. She hates it so much. Her jealousy, her undefined rage, her fear. She hates it, hates her. She hates her mother, her father, this man she would many without ever seeing his silhouette. When again ? It was all cursively written on this perfumed letter. In two months ? No, two weeks. Only two short, insignificant weeks. She would have to leave everyone, leave her dream of becoming a perfect hero, just to become a perfect housewife instead. She hates it so, so much. And, for the first time, she's doesn't even feel guilty for thinking that way. She has her reasons. Reasons that she'll never say out loud, but reasons none the less.

She blinks when a hand touches her shoulder hesitantly. She glances to her right. Todoroki stares blankly at her, but an inch of worry reaches his eyes. She winces at the contact, but his hand stays on her shoulder. It's shaking. It's not safe.

"Do you need to go out ? You look sick," he whispers, not bothering anyone.

"Ah..."

She looks at her hands, covered by blue ink, her created pen wide open. My creation fails me like I fail everyone. Her skin glows paler than usual and, when she looks down, ashamed, she spots gray paper clips on the ground. Eight. She pushes them discretely to her bag.

"Yes. I need to go out. Please."

Her voice sounds so desperate, more than she intended, but she doesn't find the strength to care. Todoroki rises his right hand, warm hand still on her shoulder. Aizawa, unable to hide his surprise, gives them the permission, checking from afar Momo's pale figure. They both walk out under the prying eyes of their classmates. Aizawa goes back to his lesson, not saying a word about the gray paper clips falling behind them.

The walk is awkward, quiet. No one's around, only their footsteps resonate, the repetitive sound bouncing against the white and brown walls. Momo still shudders, her mind far away from the situation she's stuck in. Todoroki searches for something to say, anything. After some minutes of silence, they finally get to the entry. They stay out for a moment. They don't know how long exactly.

"How do you feel, Yaoyorozu ?"

"It could be worse."

"But it could be better."

"I guess."

It feels cut, shorten. Parts miss, they both want, need to talk more. Momo wants distraction. Shouto wants answers. But just as he's about to ask, maybe too much, Momo cuts him, head straight, facing the empty streets, but eyes drating everywhere, never tired.

"Todoroki, what do you think of arranged marriage ?"

It's blunt, too harsh, it hides but reveals at the same time. Shouto winces at the question. She knows the answer too well, they talked about that during late night discussions, caused by insomnia or stress, sometimes just desire to talk to one another.

"I hate it; It's inhuman, it doesn't respect the laws, it creates more chaos than true relationships, it's- "he pushes his rage away, slightly shaking his head. "It's just not right."

"I see," her voice is just a whisper, floating with the wind.

"You know, if I become a hero, I don't want to be under the spotlights and the cameras like Endeavor. I want to fight crimes from behind. And arranged marriages, based around quirk creation or money issues, it would be my priority. Every human, good or bad, quirkless or not, should have the right to love who they want. That's my goal."

"Well then go ahead."

"What ?"

She closes her eyes, biting her lips. For a moment, she thinks she said too much. But at the same time, she thinks he can help her. But an itch in her heart stops her from saying more and, smiling, she looks at him, at his surprised look. Smiling hurts her cheeks, she thinks.

"I mean, become the best hero you can be and accomplish your dreams, you're capable of that Todoroki," it sound true but bitter.

"You too, Yaoyorozu."

She doesn't answer, just nods. There's no need to talk. They both walk back to class and, when leaving the empty streets of the early morning, Shouto sees a dozens of gray paper clips shining under the weak and cold sunlight. He doesn't ask more, doesn't speak at all. Maybe he should, he doesn't really know. He doesn't know anything at all, in fact.


	3. The second night

To say that she just regretted coming would be an understatement. She never wanted to go home that much. Don't get her wrong, she loves her friends, she wouldn't be who she is without them. But she's so, so tired. Her eyes feel heavier than ever and she knows that, tonight, she won't stay long in this peaceful state she loved. Yet she knows that as soon as she'll close her eyes for too long, she'll just dream, then wake up, then complain again. She can only acknowledge this fact, and it scares her. The apprehension becomes worse and worse.

"So, which movie are we gonna see ?'

"Seriously Kyouka ?You didn't think about that before ?"

"It's okay Bakugou, we'll pick one that seems good ! Don't heat up now !" Cheers Hagakure jumping repeatedly, letting her dress float.

"Hagakure's right, it's better to improvise when we're with friends."

"Way to go, Kyouka."

They're too cheerful, too dynamic for her, she can't follow. Her legs are heavy, her body feels bigger, her heart beats too slowly, her breath is shallow. She looks at all her friends with envy. All joyfully aware of their time together, Bakugou smiling discretely behind, Todoroki talking actively to Izuku about the last lesson. They all run to the theater. Momo's tired of following. Following seems too difficult now. It's submission to them, to her parents, to a stranger, following seems just like a negative word now. But she complies, because she promised. She promised to Kyouka, to her parents, even if it becomes more like a pain she can't heal despite all the medicines she tries to swallow.

Soon, they're all inside, away from the threatening cold of the night, fighting for a movie. Her head's a bomb, ticking every second, every heartbeat, it hurts, it hurts too much. She listens to the sudden silence, blessing this sole moment of nothingness. But when she opens her eyes again and looks up, they all stare curiously at her pale figure, eyes shining mischievously under the strong lights attached to the black ceiling. She looks back at them, mirroring their facial expression. Easier to say than to do, she awaits for someone to speak, to get her out of this situation. Todoroki speaks first, wonder laced around his voice.

"Which movie do you want to see ?"

"Oh, well..." she looks at every poster, not finding anything interesting. She picks one with shiny colors that could keep her awake. "The Bride's last day ?" She regrets. Oh, she regrets, it hurts.

"No, that shit's so annoying,' rages Bakugou.

"And we all know she dies at the end," Mina proudly says. Cruel fate. "Let's find something else."

"What about one no one proposed ?" intervenes Tsuyu, "so none of us can be disappointed nor jealous ?"

"Good idea Tsuyu !" Cheers Ochako, eyeing the posters. She points at the last poster against the red walls. "Teddy Bear ?"

"What a lame name," whispers Kyouka, index against her upper lip.

"I like the title, it's cute," sighs Hagakure. "Let's go, comrades !"

And they all listen, everyone walking forward, buying their tickets one by one, not saying a word. Momo feels like a stranger now, not even knowing the movie, not even hearing her friends' voices. She pays and follows. Follows. It's pitch black, she can't see a thing, but she follows. She doesn't know if she likes it or not. Doesn't know a thing. She feels a hand, cold one, leading her by her wrist to a seat. She sits down and, still lost, tries to search through the darkness of the room for her friends. She hears them by her side and sighs. She feels warmth by her right side and already guesses who helped her seconds before. She smiles. This warmth is comfortable, reassuring, she could get used to it. But just as she's about to thank him discretely, the movie starts to play. Todoroki, just aside her, looks at the giant screen with newfound interest. She sighs, leaning against the cotton seat, and closes her eyes. What a mistake.

Like light, everything fades. At first, a sensation of tranquility takes over her mind. She hears laughter, comedic voices, she feels warmth and correctness. But soon, she doesn't feel anything anymore. She only dreams. She sleeps. Once again, every sound melts. Words are inaudible, laughter seems superficial, and it's a ceremony, one she never desired, that takes place in her mind. The music seems loud, the speakers shaking regularly, troubling the air. Her dress, as white as bones, itches her every skin, her heels hurt painfully her feet, imprisoning them in a glassy cage, twisting her ankles. The guests are unknown with beautiful faces, beautiful clothes, beautiful words, beautiful everything, but money floods out of their pockets. The aisle is too long, too big, she's tired of walking, hands holding on to her father's arm. She looks up, staring through the thin and white wedding veil covering gracefully her face, analyzing his face twisted with joy, pride and love, and she feels guilty as she hates more and more this expression she never really saw before. Ready to break down. She arrives in front of her future husband. Not a villain, not an ugly, repulsive man, but one with a smile, with loving eyes, expectations and desires. She cries, out of happiness, out of sadness, they can't see the difference, it's a match. They take their vow, her voice isn't hers. She creams out of pain when he kisses her through her wedding veil, the thin fabric slipping down her throat. It hurts, it burns, it pierces through her lips, her teeth, resonates all throughout her body, echoes against her bones. She tears her dress to shred in front of the guests, they all applause. And, for a moment, her body feels better naked than dressed. Then, everything goes out of her mind, and the same actors, laughing, greet her, shine against her teary eyes. Todoroki holds her hands, cooling her forehead. They all laugh at a joke she couldn't hear. Except him.

"Yaoyorozu, do you need to go out to breathe ?"

His voice is just a hush, full of worry and for a second, Momo doesn't know what she feels more guilty about. Crushing her parents' dream in her own, or making Shouto worry about what doesn't concern him. She honestly can't decide.

"Yes," she spits out, distress strangling her. "Take me home, please, please."

"I'll tell the others, wait for me."

And she does. She waits. Not for long, he tells them quickly, making some kind of excuse she can't hear from here, and they both exit the theater. Momo is out of breath, Shouto holds her wrist, guiding her through the aisle. The aisle. She gags, remembering her naked body in front of those complete strangers, with their delighted eyes looking through her mind.

Once out, Shouto leads her to his car. Claustrophobic. She needs air, oxygen, what makes you age, what makes you live and die at the same time. Air. He opens the windows, letting her hair fly while he drives. The night's air is calming and soon, her tears dry and disappear, not letting any clue of their latest presence.

"Yaoyorozu, if anything is wrong, tell me," he seems hesitant, his eyes fixing the traffic ahead of them. "Okay ? You can trust me like I trust you." He fixes her for a second, his afghanite and andalusite hetero chromatic eyes shine under the lampposts. His shadow, moving along with the lights, makes the image almost poetic. She mentally takes a picture.

"I trust you, Todoroki, I trust you, just-" She coughs, covering her mouth. Shame blocks her throat as a soft sob escapes through her lips. "Just not now, please."

Later. When it'll all too late, when no one will remember her as she was, when she'll be old, when they won't even recognize her. When they won't regret not acknowledging her case. And when she'll maybe move on, accept everything.

"When you're ready, Yaoyorozu." His voice is softer than she remembers it to be, and her heart laces around her throat. Yaoyorozu suddenly feels like a longer name than intended.

"Please, call me Momo."

"What ?" He's unsure, surprised, his eyes seem to shine more than usual but it's too dark to see now, without the lampposts of the city. "Are you- Are you really sure ?"

"Yes, please."

"Oh, well… Call me Shouto then," And he smiles. Little, but he does, looking at the gray road. His eyes doesn't move away. "Momo."

She sighs. Uneasiness doesn't fill the car anymore. She rolls the window up, feeling cold. She closes her eyes and sleep comes easily, quietly, without problem. It's peaceful, his car is comfortable. Like her name rolling off his tongue, too.

First mistake.


	4. The second day

This morning, she woke up on her bed, only her shirt and panties covering her body. She should have felt ashamed and embarrassed, but she couldn't seem to care about this part. She could only care about the other one. Todoroki, or should she say Shouto, helped her. She only wanted to be heard but he entirely listened to the little words with no meaning she had to say. He took her out, accompanied her, stayed by her pitiful side without knowing an inch of the hurtful truth, without understanding the cause of her cries. And she felt thankful for all of that. Todoroki, behind his expressionless face and short sentences, was one of the purest and kindest person she ever had the chance to meet. She just wanted to thank him again and again for his help, thank him until her words don't make sense anymore. So she dresses up and walked silently to the dining hall, where everyone else seemed to already eat. No one really paid attention to her discrete figure, and she felt relieved at the sight. For now anyway.

But soon, she feels lonely, leaning quietly against a wall, hands fidgeting with the edge of the table, while everyone talks cheerfully about a subject she couldn't hear from where she stands. She sighs and sits in silence, eating slowly, her gaze darting between her trembling hands and the dull images on the TV. Footsteps are irregular, breathes are shallow, she looks at everyone. They all laugh. Bakugou smiles, too, it must have been interesting, something funny. Ayoama dances, Mina sings, Jirou mimics a guitar and Kaminari drums. They all laugh -without her ? They didn't see her coming, they couldn't hear her silences footsteps through the TV's high volume. She shakes her bad thoughts out of her throbbing head and throws reluctantly the remains of her unfinished food. She didn't feel hungry anyway. Jealousy isn't the good solution, she thinks. She shouldn't act that way, they just didn't see her tumble down the stairs, through the wooden doors. She thinks strongly, tries to believe. But her words fade as she sees Jirou eyeing her her from afar, almost spying. She whispers something at Kaminari. He nods then they both stand up, gesturing widely to the others. It hurts so much. Maybe it truly is her fault ? Isn't it ? Should she have greeted them ? At least waved from away ? She chokes on her own saliva and walks out, throwing nonchalantly her jacket on her shoulders. Without a word. Because words are no use when alone. Who could she talk to ? Her shaking hands ? Her own hands would stay quiet against her words if it could only talk, she knows that. Everyone would stay silent, so they wouldn't have to explain from A to Z why couldn't understand.

Why do I have to marry him ?

You wouldn't understand.

Then explain it to me.

You're too young.

Too young to understand yet old enough to marry, is that it ?Can I cry in front of them ? Of happiness, yes. What a blessing. She cries, once outside. She even sobs. It comes out louder than intended, louder than her own thoughts, it takes over her head. But it's okay, no one's really bothered, because no one's here. She's alone.

"What a beautiful day to be alive," she sighs, a tear falling on her tongue. But no one can really be fooled, her words spit venom. "How relaxing," and it truly is. The sun is high already, shining through the morning air. No clouds, it's warm. "I like it," and she truly does. Why would she lie alone ?

Footsteps come her way. She quickly dries her cheeks ans turns around just in time to catch Kyouka in her arms, followed by Hagakure, Ochako, Tsuyu and Mina. Kyouka kisses her cheek lightly and backs off, smiling. Momo thinks she can see salt on her lips, but she's not sure.

"Do you feel better ? Todoroki told us you caught a cold," she breathes worryingly, hope under her tongue. She's friendly.

"Oh, yes, don't worry about me."

"How could I not worry about you ? I care. Even your eyes are red. Do you have a fever ? Were you crying ?"

"No, I just looked at the sun for too long. It must have irritated my eyes," Momo reassures Kyouka, wincing at the dry sensation invading her eyeballs. She blinks.

"But, Yaomomo," Ochako intervenes, confused. "The sun can't be seen today, the sky is covered by clouds."

"Is that so ?"

She looks around her again. It's gray, windy, almost cold. Intimidating cumulonimbus brush the earth. A single drop of salty water falls on her eye. She blinks it out and shivers, covering her arms.

"But it was sunny just a minute ago," she answers, voice quivering, full of doubts.

"You must have a little fever again, you should rest," proposes Tsuyu.

"No, I'm okay, I swear."

She swears. Unsure and unsatisfied by her answer, they all nod and walk to class, Kyouka looking down at her feet as she walks away, feeling helpless in this kind of situation.. Momo follows her, staring deeply at the sky. Maybe she believed too much, way too much for her own sake. Maybe her brain was making her delusional, just to help her cope with her problems. She sighs. Believing helps, believing heals. She'll just have to believe strongly for the next days. Then, it'll all come crashing, she'll just have to take it. Just take it all as it comes. It'll be okay, it'll b okay.

The day passes by softly, quietly. Exercises are delayed, they're due for tomorrow. Everything's fine, going her way. She believes it, and it works. For now.


	5. The third night

It went on and on, for so long. The wind softly blowing her hair away, the light kiss of the moon on her naked skin. She doesn't sleep, but isn't awake. She's in her state. Her own state, the one she learned little by little to control, the one she feels blessed enough about, during which every sensation on her body is a sweet stroke, a soft finger caressing her skin, tracing her curves, soothing her. Her eyes are closed, mouth slightly opened, breathing in and out the little oxygen she needs. She feels every molecule entering her mouth, every bubble of air blowing against her teeth. She simply breathes in, breathes out. Sensations, sentiments, feelings, she just senses them. She's quiet, at peace with herself, the love of her comrades playing in repeat in her head. Just what's positive, the beautiful, the optimistic pictures, clear memories, souvenirs of this world. Just what she likes. Without knowing, she smiles.

But once again, pain crashes abruptly on her skull. Feelings, beloved sensations, cherished sentiments, the regular strokes of the wind, it all ran away, let her down. Down there, on a bed, in a stranger's room. Her hair is down, her muscles are still against the thrown covers. She sees a shadow on her back, a hand on her shoulder, skipping under her arm, stroking her side, tracing her hip. She feels a mouth tracing the veins on her neck, fingers playing with her hair, twisting them, sensing them. Polished nails on her tummy, a leg surrounding her, a chest against hers, skin against skin, breath against breath. His eyes look at her, loving eyes, eyes she doesn't recognize, they shine like cobalt and seem as sharp as diamond. His mouth disposes kisses against her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, her eyebrows, her eyelids, while his hands impatiently express his lust against her hips, her legs, the bottom of her back. They stroke soft parts, violate her privacy. She chokes on her tongue, he kisses her deeply. She cries, he smiles.

"You're overwhelmed, it's normal for a first time. I'll make it perfect for you, you'll see."

You'll love it. His voice is mutated, she doesn't understand. It's all alienated, modified. She cries even more, he strokes her privacy faster. One finger, two fingers, it hurts, it hurts so much. She doesn't feel but she knows. She knows it hurts, because her body jerks away, because her heart aches, because she cries. She knows she hates it too, because she screams. Yet he keeps on moving, and it soon becomes way too much. He positions his legs slowly between hers,, goes deeply inside her, and moves. The bed moves with him, the sheets irritate her back, the light burns her eyes, his penis tears her apart. She yells, but only moans come out of her drooling mouth. She wants to say it, that she wants it all away, far, that she just wants it to stop, that it terrifies her, but it keeps on and on and on and she gags, because it's horrifying, she's petrified. She fears the warmth inside, his face of pleasure, her own sounds, their bodies, her sweat, the reeking smell of sex invading her nose. In a climax, he closes his eyes and falls. She doesn't move, pants instead. He smiles then goes lying under the sheets.

"See, you liked it."

She tilts her head to the side and watches him as he falls asleep. She moves and sobs, quivers. Her dream tells her her hated future and the blood between her legs tells her she lost everything. She screams.

The window burst open, the curtains clack against the walls. She jerks out of bed, cold sweat covering her body. She throws the sheets away, their blue color burning her eyes. She's safe now, far from her horrid dream. No blood, no ache. Nothing. She dresses in a hurry, not daring to look at her body. It disgust her. The view of a naked man on her, the sight of her body pressed under his, the broken sounds of her voice. She forces her eyes open, looking at the blinding moon. It irritates her eyes but she supports it. She doesn't sleep after that, only pictures this terrible night again and again, despite her strong desire to just destroy it. Her eyes water. It hurts.

"Please, no," she begs aloud at to the moon. "Kill me, kill me, kill me," her voice floats with the wind, embracing the stars. "I don't want that," she puts her hands on her quivering mouth and watches as the wind closes the window with force. She whimpers and crawls under her desk, far from her bad, where she can't see the moon anymore. Where it's dark. "¨Please..."

But even if the night hears, it doesn't listen. And in twelve nights, she'll endure it all over again. Alone.


	6. The third day

The bus is loud. People inside -friends, comrades- seem louder than they really are, their voices echoing violently against the metallic walls. Teachers sigh as the noise, but nothing is said, it would be pointless. They ride to a combat zone, one that wouldn't risk much, one built especially for training, so everything would be safe. They laugh, they talk, they contemplate or sleep, everyone does something, no exception.

"So, Tsuyu, do you think it'll be a mountain simulation or a lake one ?" asks Hagakure with curiosity, an inch of excitement hiding behind her tongue.

"I actually have an idea, but I would prefer not to speculate too much about it," she answers, a finger on her chin, out of habit. "I don't want to disappoint you or anyone else."

"It's okay Asu- Tsuyu, you can tell us," encourages Midoriya, a little hesitant.

"Well, I overheard sir Aizawa talking to All Might about a water place, but it might be for later."

"Maybe she heard wrongly," intervenes Bakugou, "she's a fucking frog, not a mouse."

"Bakugou, that's just rude," sternly reprimands Ochako.

"Well, he's not wrong, I am a frog after all."

"The way he said it could have been nicer, true" agrees Sero, watching as Sato nods along with him.

"Don't all go on my back dickheads !"

"Could you be a little quieter behind ?" firmly asks Aizawa, an inch of disappointment in his voice. "You're from Yuuei, not some kindergarten."

And it shuts everyone. Not the way the words are said, but the way the visible accusing tone breaks through their ears like a spear. They all wait for the rest of the ride silently, some whispering about nothing and everything, others contemplating the rural countryside, Bakugou still fuming on his seat. Momo sighs and tilts her head backward, hitting her head against the plastic seat. It shakes, it's uncomfortable, but she doesn't complain as she closes her eyes. She's too tired to complain about anything at all. Jirou hums at her side, head moving along the inaudible rhythm she listens to. She just enjoys the quietness, waiting for the bus to stop.

"The training you'll go through today is a special one. We'll do it only once or twice this year. Even if at first it can sound useless, you'll need it in congested and narrow places, that being due to a villain's attack or a natural cause, like water or vegetation," explains tiredly Aizawa. He glances at every student, marking a pause. They all wait patiently for him to continue. "It'll be like an obstacle course, to put it simply. You'll have to find a way to pass through every obstacle, pitfalls and traps quickly, avoiding every object coming blocking your way. No living thing, no villains, just objects, fragments or natural places like forests and lakes. You'll go one by one, the others learning as the first go. For this one, you'll know the parkour, but for the others, you'll have to improvise. There's a map around here with all the obstacles you'll cross.

"I'll be your teacher on this one,' shouts Present Mic. "Midnight and I will, at the end of each run, explain how you could have done better."

"Better words could have been chosen but basically, yes. We'll help you find a perfect way for each situation. Other student will learn thanks to the visual materials we have here," she proudly points to the screen already displaying different places of the course. "Now, let's choose the first lucky runner," she laughs determinedly, taking a few steps to the students. They all stiffen.

She takes out of her bag a stack of white stick, all with a hand-printed number written on it. Every student takes one. They all look carefully at the numbers, and a wave of sounds erupts from their discover. Some groans, some cheers, Midnight claps.

"So, who's number one ?"

Ochako rises her hands, blushing at the sudden attention she gets. She hands the stick back to Mignight and walks timidly to the map, strategically watching every place. A pic, a lake, destroyed buildings, a flat land and a forest. It looks quite simple from here, but Ochako stresses. She can't make her body float that long, and she doesn't really know how to swim properly, never having the chance to go to some kind of swimming pool. Five minutes pass quickly. She takes position at the starting line, puffing her chest, clapping her tights, and waits for Present Mic's countdown.

Three, two, one, the numbers are yelled to fast, Ochako misses the start. But she quickly gains back her composure and runs. She climbs the pic with difficulty, only being able to make her clothes a little less heavy. She looses time searching for a rock she could use for the lake. Once she finally founds one, she floats slowly above the lake, making it just in time before falling heavily on the ground, rolling to the side. She makes every fragment float on her way, climbing or crawling when ones are just too heavy for her. She runs tiredly through the grassy plain, looking hesitantly at the forest drawing near. Once arrived, she tried to float above the high trees, not wanting to loose her way, but her time's too short and she falls on a tree, having to run nauseously through the dull forest. She limps to the finish line, heaving loudly. Everyone claps and congratulates her, hiding their own fear and apprehension behind big and colorful smiles. She's sick but brave. Ten minutes and thirty-six seconds. Everyone makes it around ten minutes, finding a way to run through the obstacles, the lake being the most difficult obstacle for almost everyone. It's Momo's turn now, and her heart can't stop beating so fast. Why does it always have to be so annoying ? Stop beating now.

"Momo, you'll be okay ?" asks her Shouto, worry laced around his voice. She ignores her friends' widened eyes as he says her name. "You look sick."

"Don't worry, I just feel tired," she smiles, flattered at his attention.

She walks to the starting line and waits. She doesn't have any idea on what to do, and her legs forget how to run so suddenly.

"Go !"

But she does. Her legs take her to her next goal. She creates blades under her red leather boots, giving her the chance to climb faster. She throws them once at the top, sliding carefully to the lake, ignoring her shallow breath and tired feet. She tries to think, think damn it, but she doesn't remember how to do a stupidly simple mechanism. She takes her book and reads through the carefully scribbled notes she wrote, finding the answer he needs. She opens her top, not caring about the camera somewhere around her, and create a little jet ski. It's too big for her, too much effort, and she didn't eat properly this morning. She regrets as she sits shakily on the leather seat. And, firmly gripping the steering wheel, her arms seem thinner than usual, covered by endless drops of water. The lake goes easily after that, despite her unsteadiness. She passes easily the destroyed arena and runs through the flatland. The grass under her boots is slippy, it tickles her calves. She's fast but, under her cloudy vision, the forest seems unreachable. She's sick, she can't continue without her head aching too much. Hungry, cold, tired. But she runs and finally arrives at the entrance of the forest. She wants to stop, scared of the darkness greeting her with a mad smile, but the camera buzzing at her right forces her to keep on. They're all watching her, maybe judging, laughing, waiting for her to fall. _Don't make me continue, please_ , she sighs. Words hurt, and an unpleasant pain bursts inside her chest, climbing her spine, hitting against the top of her skull. But she walks in, creating from her sweaty palms a lamp torch and a working GPS system. She follows the path displayed on her screen, every step burning her more. She throws her boots, the leather irritating the sole of her foot too much. She walks through the forest barefoot, ignoring the tickling grass. Slight tears form at the edge of her darkened eyes, and when she finally see the exit, she lets them fall freely. Just find an excuse, mocks the camera. She throws the objects down and staggers to the finish line. But Midnight doesn't let her finish as she catches her, lifting her weakened body off the ground with worry painting her face. There's no reason to be worried, what is she doing ? Why is she screaming ? And why are they all looking at Momo like she's dying ? They put food in front of her but she can't eat, doesn't want to open her mouth. She's not even hungry anymore. Is it normal ? Shouto runs at her, mouthing something, but she doesn't catch the words falling like a river on her buzzing ears.

"What- Shouto ? What ?"

"Momo, are you okay ? Did you eat this morning ? God, you're so thin… They'll bring you to Recovery Girl, don't worry."

"I'm al- Shouto ?"

Her sentences are short, her words are inaudible, she doesn't even know she's talking. She's so weak. Recovery Girl takes her, heals her, but she can only do so much. Momo needs to eat. Yet, she feels like throwing up even the air she breathes. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the windows and just stops. She's thin, too thin. Her legs tremble, her arms pulse along the fast beat of her panicked heart. She didn't eat nor sleep enough for what she created; A whole mechanism. She should have swam. But would she have made it ? Would she have drowned, fallen at the bottom of the lake ? She can feel the cold water running through her skin, filling her lungs.

"I'm tired..."

"Don't close your eyes yet. Wait," orders Recovery Girl, putting a basket of fruits against her hip," and eat."

She eats the fruits presented to her without complaining, gagging with every swallowed portion. She closes her eyes and doesn't listen to anyone around her, only catching the sound of Present Mic starting the next course. Her heart's beating too fast again. She stresses for so much, it annoys her. She clenches her dirty costume. _Stop beating._

"I she sick ?" Whispers Midnight behind the white curtains. Her shadow plays on the thin fabric.

"Not physically, I fear, but mentally."

 _Stop beating._

"What do you mean ?"

"Her body is healthy despite the lack of energy due to her not eating or the lack of sleep, but no illness. No cold, nothing we could heal easily."

 _Stop beating, please._

"Then what ?"

"It might be depression, but I'm not sure. It's mental, and I can't know what it is precisely."

"Because of her parents' choice ?"

"Surely. She's a teen after all."

 _Stop breathing, now._

"She's too young to be married."

But it never listens.


	7. The fourth night

"Ah..."

She passes a pale hand through his hair. No feelings, no sensations, nothing. Her fingertips touch his scalp, stroke his hair, but she senses nothing. Absolutely nothing. They took it away from her. That too ?

"So..."

It's the first time she can really talk. Words slip through her mouth, tickle her tongue. Yet she only hears them from afar, sounding like someone else's voice, not her own. Like she can't create them. Like she can't create anything anymore.

"It's gone..."

What, her freedom ? Maybe. Surely. That, too, they took it away. What she was born with, what she could claim and love, they took it all away. Her freedom. Of speech, of thoughts, of marriage, of love, of education. They took it all away at the same time, gone like nothing.

"All gone, now..."

He moves under her hands, kissing her thigh, stroking her hips sleepily. But that, too, she can't feel it. No sensation. It's all wrong, all counterfeited, right under her own hands. Her body, his body, the bed, the room, the night. All made piece by piece.

"What have I left ?"

No rights. Not the right to love, not the right to learn, not even the right to talk, to think, to fight. She can't even create now, they don't want it. Don't desire it. It's not lady-like. Not beautiful, not sexy, not pretty. It's hideous. She has nothing left. Nothing.

"Did I have anything before ?"

She's not sure. It was all a lie after all, no ? They made her comfortable with what she had, she took it for granted, she thought she had it all, what a mistake. She had the image, the reputation, the beautiful dresses, masks, products, even the smiles, but otherwise, she already had nothing.

"What a waste..."

Of what ? Of time ? Of love ? Of quirk ? She could have lived longer, she could have loved longer, she could have fought longer. Saving lives, even creating them. But no, that too, she couldn't have it. Oh, what a waste, truly.

"Such a shame..."

She tears his hair apart. He moves, screams, bleeds, but she doesn't hear a thing, only the curtains closing and opening violently, the wind too strong for them. She tears his skin, cuts his eyes, she doesn't feel guilty, at all.

"I hate it."

He cries now, covering his head, his eyes. He cowards behind their bed, hides. Her parents burst in the room like the wind, surely because of the noises he made, the noises she can't hear.

"I hate you."

They yell, they hit, hit her bloody fingers. She doesn't feel the pain, doesn't hear the voices. Only the curtains. Always the curtains. They're louder than her own thoughts, too. They'er too loud, they take over everything.

"You hate me, too."

They bruise her naked body, but it's okay, she felt disgusting anyway, let's clean it up together. She helps them, she bruises her own self. It's faster, and she doesn't feel anything, so it's okay.

"You hate me so much."

They take her hands, her arms, her legs, her hair. They drag her to the window, where the curtains create a loud melody, singing the inevitable tragedy. They push the curtains away and hang her body over the edge, over the nothingness. They yell, but she still hears nothing. And when she looks up, before falling, she sees their eyes, full of anger, regret, love, it's for your best. She doubts.

"No ?"

She falls.


	8. The fourth day

"Do you want to eat now, Yaoyorozu ?"

Not even need, want. It's already gone to that ? Is she that unstable ? Every word seems carefully put in place just to not break her a little bit more, create a new fracture on each of her bones. Her stomach growls. She blushes, hiding her neck and shoulders behind the thin white sheets of the infirmary.

"Yes, please."  
"Vegetables, meat or both ?"  
"Meat, please. Only meat."  
"I'll come right back."

She sighs as the small figure of Recovery Girl runs to take a piece of meat out of the fridge in the corner of the large room to put it in the microwave. From where she is, it looks like chicken, but she's not sure.

"Do you want milk ?"  
"I need it."  
"You need it, yes."

She takes a small bottle of milk, opens it and pours a generous amount of the white liquid in a large transparent glass. The microwave beeps repeatedly. She takes out the meat and puts it on a plastic plate. She brings everything and puts it on Momo's thighs. Momo thanks her with a shy voice, smiling timidly. She drinks and eats in silence. It's chicken, she knows now.

"Do you want to talk about everything now ?" Recovery Girl asks cautiously.  
"It doesn't bother me," Momo answers shyly. "But may I ask you how you know about the... whole deal ?" It hurts her. A deal.  
"Ah," she thinks about her words, trying not to hurt Momo in any way. "You parents send us a letter about it two days ago, they were scared you wouldn't talk about it to us like you were supposed to,"

She misses. Momo bites her tongue by inadvertence. She tries to swallow discretely the blood rushing from the new cut at the tip of her tongue but she winces as the irony taste invades her mouth. She gulps the milk down, and even if the remaining of the milk at the bottom of the glass has the color of a strawberry smoothie, it tastes like blood and deception. She puts the glass on the shelf at her right, hiding it behind her arm, ashamed.

"They were right, you didn't talk to us about it," she continues. Seeing Momo's fists clenched, she quickly apologies. "But it's okay, we all would have made the same choice. Staying silent. It's always been easier. We understand. We all wanted to talk to you about this Friday, but it seemingly came sooner. This whole deal..." She gestures to Momo like her body was put in the market. She misses again. "It destroyed your mind. There's no other way to say it, it completely hurt you, and you put your body in danger. We can't accept that. That's why we decided to talk with your parents. They're coming tomorrow."

Momo chokes on her fork, knocking down her plate. Recovery Girl gasps and catches the remaining of the food before running to her desk, throwing everything away in the bean. Momo shivers, watching weakly as little paper clips fall from her arms and neck, plummeting to the ground silently.

"Don't create anything yet ! You're too weak !" Recovery Girl yells, alarmed by all the little objects cutting through her thin pale skin.  
"I can't help it." Momo answers, despair hiding behind her tongue.

Recovery Girl looks at her quizzically before nodding. She softly kisses her cheek before going to take a clean uniform hanging behind the door. Momo feels a little better, her shoulders relaxing. The paper clips stop. She watches them slip down her bed and shine under the dim light of the morning. Recovery Girl comes back with her uniform.

"Put that on. You have to go back to class, I'm sorry about that."  
"It's okay. I need to."

She dresses slowly, tracing from the tip of her calloused fingers her apparent ribs. She dreams of replacing them with white and black keys, playing the easy melodies she used to listen to when younger, innocent, hiding away in the known security of her old room. A princess, reading love stories, drawing her dreams on thin and white papers with colorful pens, listening again and again to classical lullabies she knew too well. She sighs, because when she touches them, they don't make any sound, they just hurt, shine under the lights. She hides them behind her thin shirt, scared of her own body. Recovery Girl eyes her from afar, empathy covering her face. She sighs, ignoring the look of defeat and fear in the young girl's tired eyes.

"You'll gain back weight after a day or two if you eat properly. Drink a lot and don't push yourself. But despite that, you'll surely have weight problems after everything. It can't be helped, I'm sorry."

Momo nods and finally puts her shoes on. She floats inside, but she doesn't mention it. She takes her bag, visibly full of notes and books. The old woman stares her way, smiling sympathetically at her pale figure.

"One of your comrades, Todoroki, took all the notes for you. He gave me your bag, for when you'd wake up. You should thank him."  
"I'll do."

She smiles, relief flooding through her entire being as a warm sensation invades her chest. It beats faster but for once, she doesn't want it to stop. She thanks the old lady, taking the slice of bread she's handing with a warm smile, and goes out, walking slowly to her class. The sky is full of white little clouds, like small lambs eating the wind, the sun hiding miserably behind one of them. It's cold but she doesn't complain, warmth still enveloping her skin. She smiles again. Maybe it'll be okay.  
Once in front of the door, she sighs and takes a loud breath through her teeth. She knocks and opens the heavy door with shaking hands. Everyone looks at her, wide eyes. From afar, she can see Kyouka sighing, smiling with relief and joy. She apologies timidly and tiptoes to her seat, looking firmly at her chair, avoiding everyone's stare. As soon as she sits, the class starts again, like a newly functioning clock, and everyone stares back at the black board covered by white traces of chalk. She takes out her book and notebooks, creates a blue pen and takes notes from what she can hear behind her tired ears. Todoroki glances discretely at her.

"Momo," he whispers, "is everything alright ?"  
"Yes, better than yesterday, at least." She marks a pause, thinks about her next words. "Thanks."  
He looks quizzically at her. "For what ?"  
"For the notes, and for caring so much about me."  
"Oh," he smiles genuinely. She looses her breath for a second. "It's nothing, you're important after all."

 __ _ _You're important__. She smiles back before going back to her notes, Todoroki mimicking her movements. If the aura around them feels warmer than in the rest of the class, they don't notice.  
After class, they all come at her. Kyouka jumps on her back, smiling from ear to ear. They all ask her about her state, how she feels, she always answers that she feels better, she always thanks them for caring. Today, she laughs. Despite the tangible state of her body, despite the terrible state of her mind, she laughs and forgets about everything. For now, she feels correct again, a complete matrioshka doll, two pieces together, with maybe not the right colors, but at least the right forms. They fit. It's okay, it's all okay.  
No ?


	9. The fifth night

She doesn't have a clue on how she ended in their shared living room, comfortably rolled on one of the couches, laughing tiredly at some midnight sitcom playing on the big TV against the wall. It's too late for this but here she is. Jirou is by her side, both girls almost locking hands. They laugh, chat wholeheartedly, almost forgetting about the show playing right under their eyes. The ambiance is agreeable, a floral smell floating around in the room coming from the washing machine not far. The white light above their heads seems almost ghostly, giving to the room an effect of warm late afternoon. Jirou shoves a pastry in her mouth, gulping it almost immediately. She coughs, hitting lightly her chest. Momo laughs, a hand on her lips.

"How vulgar," she jokes, falsy astonished.

"Oh, come on, how do you want me to resist to those delicious, tasty, sugary pastries ? Sato really did his best on those ones," she states, ecstatic about the food in her hands. She eats another one, slowly this time. "So, Yaomomo..."

"Yes ?"

"Can I ask you something ?"

"Well..." she feels it coming. "Of course."

"Did Todoroki really call you Momo ?" She asks, suddenly excited. Momo blushes, looking at the pastries. She takes one and stuffs her mouth, shewing it slowly. "I see what you're doing, don't avoid my question !"Kyouka exclaims, snickering viciously. Momo gulps down the food before gazing at the show, suddenly really interesting.

"Well, yes, but..."

"Do you call him by his name too ?"

"Ah, yes, but-"

"Are you a thing now ?"

Momo stares at Kyouka, taken aback. A moment of silence follows them, heavy silence, the question hanging above their heads. Her wide eyes look confusedly at Kyouka, her mouth slightly opened.

"What ?"

"Are you two a thing ?" She asks, forming a heart with her earlobes. She smirks.

"No, of course not !" Momo shouts, quickly covering her eyes with her trembling eyes. If you don't see it, it doesn't exists. But she can hear, still.

"But you're interested, I know that," Kyouka states, dramatically pausing. "You were destined to be together, I know that," now she just imitates Aoyama.

"We can't," she declares. Kyouka looks at her quizzically. Another mistake. She quickly recovers. "Ah, I mean, he's not interested. And we're all so busy for this, because, you know, lessons and class, becoming heroes, and-"

"I get it, I get it," sighs Kyouka. She giggles, fidgeting. "But it's just for now. Maybe you two will end up together later," she seems so sure.

"Who knows, maybe," she can't deny it at this point. She just knows it won't end up like this. It won't work. She knows. There are so many things in her way, so much. "Do you want to go to sleep now ?"

"Yep, I guess it's time." She trots to the TV, switching it off. They both walk to Kyouka's room silently. "Yaomomo ?"

"Yes ?"

"I'm glad you're okay," she whispers shyly.

She hugs Momo, breathing softly. The hug is long, silent, they both feel each other's warmth, heartbeat hitting their rib cage. Momo sniffles behind Kyouka's neck. Kyouka smiles, patting softly Momo's back. They both stay quiet in front of Kyouka's room, listening to the silence of the night. They separate after some time, smiling.

"Thank you for caring so much," Momo whispers timidly behind her hand.

"I'm your best friend, that's what I do." she smiles proudly, thumbs up. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Momo smiles as Kyouka closes the door behind her. It all becomes silent too quickly once again. She sighs, tiptoeing to her room. The hallways are dark, too dark, like blag fog hovering above her head, intoxicating her eyes, her mind. Someone seems to follow her, but no sounds of footsteps, no ghostly figure behind her, no one. Nothing. She shudders, covering her arms. It's cold. It's heavy, so cold. Shivers down her spine, her head suddenly hurts. She feels a sob climbing her throat, tickling her palate, her tongue, slipping through her parted lips. It echoes against the walls, single and weak sound breaking the silence. She anxiously closes the door behind her, as if the darkness behind it could stab her back, swallow her whole. She opens the window, lets the curtains hang, undresses and slowly crawls under the sheets. They suddenly irritate her naked skin but she doesn't move, studying the irregular movements of the curtains attached to her bed. They're unpredictable, free, careless. They're like fire. She doesn't sleep that night.

* * *

 _Just wanted to thank the first review from sharkgirl360. I know it's dark, and I don't know if it's a compliment or not, so I'm gonna do what I'm good at : Thank you for commenting and sorry if it's too dark, I'll do my best to make it good !_

 _Also, I had to change chapter 8, because I saw that I posted the old version. It's not that different, but I'm sorry anyway. Sorry again._


	10. The fifth day

What does the expression in her eyes mean ? Is it betrayal ? Os it disappointment ? Is it confusion, maybe wonder ? Or does it simply express the feeling taking over the heart of a mother when her daughter lies ? What does it really mean at the end ? Will she cry ? Will she yell ? Will she forgive ? Will she cancel the wedding ? What does it really mean ? Is it good or bad ? It promises, yes, but what ? Momo's lost, so confused, drowning in her mother's eyes, tangled by her blond and curly hair, deafened by her soft yet quivering voice. What does she want ? What does she need ? Since when is it so complicated to only read through her eyes, through her words, through her gesture, her posture ? Her mother shakes her head, eyebrows frown, exasperation in her voice. Momo thinks she can hear a pitiful undertone, but she's not sure.

"We won't cancel the wedding," her father spits, "just because she suddenly feels like it. It's already planned, your future husband is coming, he'll stay at our house while you work. After that, you'll come back home, and that's it. you'll live with us."

"Are you sure you really want that ?" Aizawa asks, an hint of distress in his voice, mouth partially hidden behind his scarf. "She already reacted badly, her mind as much as her body took too much pressure at the same time. She doesn't need nor want it."

"Listen," Momo's father cuts him, eyes glaring at him. "We're not here to listen to what we should and what we shouldn't do, alright ? We want Momo to marry a man we trust, a man who can protect her-"

"I can protect my self on my own !"

"And what, fall on the arms of the first stranger you see ? You'll just bring shame to the family's name because you're not married at twenty."

"Since when is it a shame ? Since when ?"

"Since forever Momo !" Her other whines, putting a kind hand on her the young girl's shoulder. It's warm. "Don,'t be like that, your father and I were married at respectively twenty-four and sixteen years old and look at us, we're happy, we built a family !"

"And always screaming at each other in my face, that's what yo are. If this is your definition of happiness, then I'll better be sad by myself. Keep your happiness for you and leave me alone, I don't want it-"

"Momo-"

"I don't want your stupid name, I don't want your money nor your love," she stands up, tears forming at the edge of her wide eyes. She looks straight into her father's stare, ignoring her mother's cries. "If I have to be ashamed of what I became, then so be it. It doesn't bother me, as long as I can become a hero. A greater hero than you'll ever be."

"We never wanted to become heroes !" Her father stands up too, yelling louder and louder. The walls seem to quiver behind his back, under his voice. He puts his hands on his wife's shoulders and sighs. He calms down, a soft look on his face. His voice is weaker. It takes Momo aback, she winces. "We only want your safety, we love you," it's barely a whisper. Momo's weakness. "We just want you to be happy. We sacrificed our career for your own sake. Please, listen to us, Momo-"

"Stop that," Momo cuts him, hands almost ripping her skirt. She shudders, a sudden headache seems to block her vision. It's all stained, all so deformed. "What career did you sacrifice ? Always away, praying my quirk but not my name !"

She takes her breath back, looking deeply into her father's betrayed eyes. Now she can read it. She can read them, understand what's hiding silently behind those dark pupils. They yell at her silently, quietly judging, quietly praying. A shame, a liar, a traitor, not worthy, maybe, of their education, of their time. But love nonetheless, hope, even some sort of admiration and patience, what their words don't and can't translate. Is it just ? Did we do good ? Did we do her harm ? Momo winces, rips her skirt a little more, listening to their voices buzzing in her head. She tears up her skirt completely. Nudity isn't a problem anymore. It doesn't feel like her body anyway.

"I don't want to-"

"Please, Momo !" Her mother begs, whipping away her tears gracefully. Her expression is torn, confused. It hurts so much. "If you marry him, we'll pay for your next school years, we'll let you become a hero. Please, we'll help you. We'll let you be free."

Momo's taken aback. She wants to stay here, she only wants to become a hero, one of the best, fighting to save lives, to bring peace in a world so unstable. She wants to achieve her dreams, more than anything. More than her freedom. But what an irony, a hero fighting for every citizen to be safe, to be free, but being imprisoned herself by grudges so thin, so weak ? What freedom would it be, to be married to some stranger she would never love ? What freedom would it be to not marry the one she truly loves ? Stupid. A hero hold back by her own demons can't save anyone. Demons made out of money, of familiar faces.

"I-I don't..."

"Think about it dear, please. We'll let you one more weak, okay ? Next Friday, we'll come back and talk about it. Think, please. For us. We believe in you. We always did,"

Her father's voice soothes her. Memories flood back. He reads a story, one of trust, one of love, one of bravery and dreams. His fingers stroke the pages, stroke her small head, while a piano plays behind them. His voice is strong yet so familiar, so calming. At the end, the daughter always stays with his parents. And the drawings if his happy face seems so charming, so poetic. All the colors, the precise contours of the stick figures, the beautiful backgrounds, the castle, the loving husband. Every word is written with love, with attention, with hope. Illustrated books for young children, ignorant yet again of the world outside of their rooms, with a moral telling them what's good, what's best. What they should always do. Was it all planned ?

"We love you, you know that."

"Goodbye dear," her mother whispers as she kisses her forehead softly. So much memories.

They both leave, not paying any attention to Aizawa. Momo stands here, part of her green skirt in her hand. She feels naked now, betrayed, let down. She wants it more, more than anything, to just become a hero, more than her own will to be free, but… There's always something wrong, something missing, a piece at the wrong place. A lie. Oh, she'll say yes. This girl wishes too much. She wants it. She wants too much, maybe too little, standards too high or too low, but she wants to know. She chokes on air. There's not enough. She suffocates. She falls on her knees, face against her palms, against the teared up piece of her green skirt. She coughs. Aizawa puts his hand on her shoulder. Reassuring, brushing paper clips away from her neck. There are so much gray paper clips, shining under the the harsh light above the dark wooden desk. It's incandescent, too strong, it burns her iris, too frontal, but at least it's not the sun. She deserves to be burnt by the sun.

"Sir, am I a bad daughter ?" She mutters, letting her tears soak the ground. If she cries enough, maybe she'll drown.

He doesn't answer, only patting her back awkwardly. He must be confused, reassuring a young girl he knows he can't help. And, really, there's no answer to this question. It's rhetorical. You can't be bad or good. Not a daughter. There's no answer. But she needs one, just one. Just this time.

"Please, say it, say it."

"I can't."

"Can't what ? Can't tell the truth. Say it. Tell me how terrible I am, how selfish I act. They love me."

"But do you love them ?"

"I don't know. Yes. But it hurts. No. But it hurts, too."

"Think about you first. Not them. You."

He stands up, taking her elbow carefully. His tired and dried eyes look at hers, scanning her entire being. He nods.

"Think about what you want the most. And please, don't forget that there is always a solution," he whispers, voice quiet and sure. She wants to be like that. Sure. But she's so lost. "There's always someone that can help, something that can change."

He pats her back and leads her outside of the office. She looks at him in disbelief.

"Go to your room now, it's getting dark.

She nods and tiptoes to her room. Her skirt is teared up, microscopic scratches cover her thighs, her gaze lingers on everything, insignificant objects cover her view.

"Momo ?"

She jumps, alarmed. Todoroki stands behind her, a sympathetic gaze on his traits. He walks cautiously to her and puts a hesitant hand on her trembling arm. He doesn't look at her thighs, doesn't pay attention to her teared up skirt that covers nothing now. He just looks at her, warm hand carefully heating her skin.

"… Do you want to stay with me ? I can't sleep."

She nods. Just nods. He smiles. Second mistake. But it's too late now, she feels like falling apart. What a shame, really.

* * *

 _Pour Une jeune écrivaine, merci pour ta review ! Tu peux écrire en français, je suis française après tout, hé hé. Merci encore pour ton soutient, et ne t'inquiète pas, il y aura des chapitres plus longs, les nuits sont juste plus courtes que les jours. Après tout, le monde dort quand la nuit tombe. Hé hé._

 _And thank you everyone for staying with me, I'll do my best for the next chapters ! Thanks again, always !_


	11. The sixth night

Sometimes, she would think of something greater. A methodical, tireless world where peace would be omnipresent, where smiles would be the current currency, where quirks never be discriminated nor judged, where maybe they wouldn't even exist. A world where she would just sleep at her will, with her friends by her side, with someone she would love with all her might. Something greater, brighter, her perfect vision of life, and she would say that it's not just an impossible utopia, it's a world of make-believe with a play-pretend country, where every laugh would be true, not forced. Nothing would be forced. Sometimes, she would think that if she had to sacrifice the present world where she currently lives, she almost almost hesitate. Because in the world she thought about for so long, everyone, everything would be better. Always better. The perfect, most beautiful, poetic world, as round as a pregnant woman's belly, as bright as her smile, as free as her body. Then she would stop her day-dreaming and harshly go back to her own world, with nothing more than fear and apprehension, her flesh burning, her bones crackling, her eyes closing. A broken machine with no oil, no hope. Work, work, work, do what you need, not what you want. That's what this outrageous world was made out of. Of broken machines.

"But don't you think that this world is good enough as it is for you ? I mean, we're all here. And every harsh moment is just a bystander on your way, leaving once it ends," quietly whispers Todoroki, looking deeply into her semi-closed eyes.

She glances back at him from the couch where she sits, facing him. She thinks for a moment, replaying his every word again and again. She eyes his face, his body, investigates his every being, paying attention to every detail she can see from where she is. Under the same old ghostly light of the living-room, she can finally draw him so correctly. His figure's never been so inviting yet intimidating at the same time. Maybe she studies him for too long, maybe she's made it awkward all over again, but she can't find the desire and energy necessary to care.

"I don't think so anymore. Being optimistic now seems too tiring."

"There's always a way. This world, even if it seems cruel, can be really beautiful."

So many little memories play again in his mind; he can see in his eyes the little moments so significant for him, for everyone around. He stands up and slowly, so silently, walks to her. He sits quietly at her side, making contact with her shoulder. A light breeze shuffles her hair at his movement, she shivers.

"You just don't take the time to look at what's around you."

"How can you say that ?" she glares at him. He sweetly smiles, locking his hand on her knee. Her glare becomes softer, almost nonexistent. She looks down, ashamed, maybe tired. Both. "How can you find the strength to say something so hopeful when I can't even look in a mirror without hating what I see ?"

Paper clips escape her skin. It almost hurts, feels like each little metal object leaves tiny cuts on her flesh. But she doesn't care. They all fall like morning dew, cascading the couch, covering their naked feet. Shouto chuckles silently, a small smile playing on his features. He takes one between his thumb and index, heating it with his left hand. A small flame plays, dances on the gray metal, reflecting in both of their focused eyes. It's intimate, silent, almost comfortable. It slowly melts between his fingers.

"You know, I've always envied you."

"How so ?"

"You can create what goes through your mind, it's fantastic."

"it's hideous, it's not art."

"It is. Look at what you can do. Perfection, very detail from form to paint, each object having your signature. It's ephemeral, it breaks one day or another, but it almost lives. It truly art. You even created a whole mechanism."

"And look at where it led me."

"It's like the world we live in. It has problems, it has consequences, but it's still a gift, a masterpiece no one can copy. You're talented, truly."

The enthusiasm in his voice shuts her. She's been praised, constantly by strangers, by proud parents, while she was away, stuck at home, far from the ambient world. She would always hear from her parents the praised she gained, but she would never really have it correctly, eyes to eyes, with genuine interest and love. She's never been complimented directly. And is Shouto, looking deeply into her teary eyes, serious expression, soft eyes, telling for the second time how talented she can be. She blushes. There are so much consequences, so much, she can't count them on her fingers, but she doesn't contradict him. What is there to disagree with ? She nods, blushes even more. He leans on her shoulder. He speaks slowly, his breath covers her skin.

"Is there something you want to tell me ?"

"Oh, so much. It's too long. But not now, please. Just- not now. Later."

"It's okay Momo, don't worry. We've got time.

"Next Friday."

"What ?"

"Next Friday, Shouto, I'll tell you everything. I promise."

"You don't have to promise. It's okay, take you time. Until then, if you need a shoulder to lean on, just come talk to me. I'm always here for you."

He yawns, missing her surprised and pleased expression. He throws his head back, leaning against the back of the sofa. He slowly closes his eyes. She doesn't see the subtle blush coloring his ears, tainting his skin with a soft pink contrasting against his pale skin.

"Let's stay together until then..."

It's impossible, she won't be here next Friday. Maybe she'll change her mind, maybe not. She doesn't know. But she keeps quiet, she can't say anything now. She doesn't have the strength. She just puts her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes, too. If during the night she feels his hand stroking hers, she doesn't push him away, doesn't talk about it in the morning. She just enjoys the moment.

* * *

 _Thank you for staying with me like this, you're all so cute and kind and perfect, it's overwhelming sometimes. Thank you, always !_

 _I read your reviews, don't worry ! Thank you Kind Guest, thank you Caeoltoiri (your name makes me think of a character in Fire Emblem Fates) ! Everyone of them, thank you. I'm sorry for always rambling but I don't know how to say thank you in an other way than by saying thank you ? I'm grateful for your support, it really warms my heart. THANK YOU ~_

 _(Et Une jeune écrivaine, Teyola, vous savez, mon anglais n'est pas si bien que ça, il est plutôt basique par rapport à tant d'écrivains anglais hé hé, il est même très plat. Mais malgré tout, merci beaucoup de votre soutient :'D )_

 _Sur ce, buh-bye ~_


	12. The sixth day

The train is crowded, she almost can't stand without shaking. People push to get out as soon as they can, walking down the train, running under the heavy rain, bag or black umbrella above their head. Some, the last ones, confused, discriminated, just walk, assume the weather that can't do more harm, not caring enough about their health. Momo watches them far from her safe spot against a window, the solid glass helping her crushed body to stand, stay still. She sighs as she sees them, wondering around, asking for help to find their way, but no one stops, it's raining too much. Would they even stop to talk even if it were a sunny, colorful, warm day ? Most people should be working today, it's Saturday. They should stop, talk a little, chat at least about the bad weather, they've got all the time in the world. Is it because they really are in a hurry or is it because most wanderers are mutants ? Misshaped by their quirk, by their fight, by their past ? Do they really fear them ? Will they become villain ? Momo sighs. She wants to change that, but how can she change a massive discrimination when it's become part of a culture ? Is it easy to change opinions, views of a majority ? And is it positive to change it all for a minority ? What would be the consequences ? How can you anticipate the reactions of an entire country ? A wold ? How can you even change the opinion of one and only one person when it's craved in their mind that different people will, one day or another, become only villains ? Not worthy of their time, their love, their patience ? Rejects of a corrupted society which only needs beauty, maybe strength, but not diversity ? She sighs again. The train stops. She excuses herself, pushing through the crowd, muttering apologies every time she tushes skin, even clothes. She walks out, holding her transparent umbrella above her head, the silver handle tightly pressed against her chest. Her hair are let down, so that no one could recognize her; she doesn't need a mask like others. She doesn't know if she likes this idea or not. Is it a gift ? She honestly can't answer, and prefer not to think about it too much. Her mind could travel too far again, dark places she doesn't want to explore. Her thoughts hurt more than her body, sometimes.

The streets are calm. They're all busy, she guesses, with what would seem to be paperwork, jobs that never end. Working, partying, crying, mourning, laughing, maybe dying. All different. Yet, all absent, away from the usually crowded streets. She walks through the silence, through the nothingness of the day, because of work, because of the actual crisis, or maybe they've all been killed. Ah, no more rich families mocking her freedom. She shakes her head, making her black hair float and fly with the momentum of her movements. It's beautiful, really, but no one's here to see. So she walks silently, hugging her bag and umbrella against her chest, her legs leading her to a place she doesn't belong to. Home. She stops in front of the white door, ringing with a sigh. The door opens slowly, a familiar voice calling. The graceful woman, seeing Momo's figure, looses her charm and grins, her eyes staying the same. What a shame, those blue eyes used to be so talkative, expressing with their glow her every emotions. She brushes her long blond and curly hair behind her shoulders and opens the door widely, bowing politely, too formally for her.

"Welcome home, dear. Do you want me to make you hot chocolate ? It must be cold outside, what a bad weather !"

They should at least talk about the weather. She regrets her past thoughts.

"It's not that cold but I would love a hot chocolate, if it doesn't bother you of course."

"Not at all ! Anything for you," it's bittersweet, truly. "Go seat on the sofa, I'll come back."

She runs to the kitchen, leaving the door wide open. Momo closes it slowly, putting her umbrella and her shoes against the wall. She hangs her gray jacket loosely against the door before going to the living room. Nothing really changed, it just became even more fancier with the time, a vintage touch coloring the white room. And a tensed atmosphere, too. Otherwise, it's all the same. She can see the black piano against the wall, not far from the chimney. Dust covers its surface, and Momo wonders since when they stopped playing the melodies she used to love. Too long, she thinks.

She sits and waits, straight against the comfortable back of the white leather sofa. Her mother comes back, two hot chocolates in her hands, pastries under her arms in a tight embrace. Momo portrays her own little body between her arms, when they both were younger, when she was innocent again. When she still didn't have her quirk. She shakes her head discretely, cursing under her breath. Too much souvenirs, pure memories flooding her mind. She hates it. Her mother cuts her train of thoughts, giving her the hot cup. She takes the mug between her hands carefully. It's hot, way too hot, and there's not any trace of milk around. Whatever. She drinks it. Her tongue hurts.

"Do you still play the piano ?" Momo asks curiously, eyeing the piano from far. She knows the answer, but still wants to ask. Maybe she's hoping too much.

Her mother seems taken aback. She smiles apologetically. "Oh, no, this thing is old. I don't have time and I lost most of the sheets."

"Even the ones you used to play when I was younger ?"

"Yes. I sold some of them, too. I didn't think you would want them. I'm sorry."

Momo would have loved to play the piano like her mother used to. All the lullabies, all the beautiful songs, characteristic of her youth. The notes, the keys, everything, she would have at least loved to hold the white sheets one last time. She sighs. An awkward silence takes over the room. They drink silently.

"So, Momo, how is school ?"

Momo sighs, searching for some kind of joke inside her mother's eyes. But she doesn't find any. She could have asked her that yesterday, but she didn't.

"It's alright, nothing new. I passed some mid term tests last week."

"Did you arrive first ?"

"Yes."

"Good, he'll be proud of you."

"Father ?" The hopeful undertone betrays her blank expression.

"No, your future husband of course."

"Oh."

Oh. Who did she mention again ? Her father ? She doesn't want to remember this hopeful mistake.

"So, well, did- did you accept ?"

Did she really have to talk bout it ? The weather suddenly feels more interesting.

"Not yet, you gave me until next Friday."

"But he's already here," she murmurs, almost ashamed of her words. There's so much hiding behind this woman.

"Where ?"

"Upstairs, in one of our guest rooms."

Ouch. It hurts. It hurts so much.

"The chocolate's too hot."

"Oh, sorry, do you need milk ?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll come back right away !"

And there she goes again. It's all silent. It's better. Is it ? Momo takes a pastry, chewing it angrily. A paper roll rolls down her shoulder, her arm, falls down between the pillows on the couch. Unseen, invisible, like her own desire to just leave this place and kill this man. Kill him, this stranger upstairs, living in her house, invading her privacy, her place, where she grew up. Her mother comes back and cautiously pours cold milk in both hers and Momo's mugs. Momo drinks, tasting the chocolate from the tip of her lips. It's better. It's not burning her tongue anymore. It's warm, perfect. Like Todoroki's left side. She blushes. It's okay, it's normal.

"Will you stay for the night ?"

"Yes, I'll take my room. Is it still the same ?"

"Yes, it stayed in the same state you left it. But don't you want to sleep with him in the guest room ? You could learn about each other."

"No." It's too harsh, too short. She coughs and takes a softer tone. "Not this time, I'm tired."

"Oh, I see," she giggles. She gets the wrong idea, always the wrong ones. "I'll leave you alone then. Did you finish ?"

"No, I'll it upstairs with me."

"Take the pastries, too."

"Thanks. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she kisses her forehead lovingly. This time, her smile reaches her eyes. "Sleep well."

Momo takes her bag upstairs along with the drink and the food. Music blasts through the brown door of the guest room. She groans. She tries to ignore the ambient music and walks to her own room, at the end of the hallway. It's calmer, quieter, without any constant disturbance. It's better.

The room, except for the dust covering her movables, didn't change at all. It's still white and blue, still really luxurious, luminous. She throws her bag, too tired and annoyed to care about the books inside. Every pastry tastes dull and the chocolate milk in her hand is too cold now, it's disgusting. She empties the cup down the sink in her bathroom and walks back to her room, throwing herself on her bed lazily. Dressed, because she doesn't trust anyone here. Even less the man down the hallway. Slowly, all lights fade. She sighs. The moon isn't visible from here.


	13. The seventh night

"Did you see that darling ? Our daughter is a genius !"

Was it because of the endless little matriockas she created, out of her palms, or was it thanks to the thousands formulas that passed through her head while creating her masterpiece that her her mother was shouting her love and excitement ? Was it because her daughter developed a quirk that no one ever had before or was it because of the infinite possibilities ahead of them now ? What is it because of ? Momo doesn't know, doesn't really understand, but the feeling of pride she can feel deep inside her chest is so overwhelming that she created more and more matriochkas, colorful, with different sizes, different faces. So much that her tiny little body becomes tired too quickly. And for the next month, she's sick. Despite that, her mother still shout her love to the world. But Momo's not here to show it, so there's no meaning in this. But it's okay, Momo is proud anyway.

"Did you hear that darling ? Our daughter created money at school !"

The pride in her voice, can Momo really be flattered ? Money, she made it because the piece of paper was beautiful, the small and thin paper, with beautiful colors, was so stunning in her eyes, with all the drawings on it, and the way the little piece could plummet gracefully to the ground. For her, the money she made didn't have any meaning except for the beauty it held. It's beautiful, it shines, that's about it. Momo asks if her mother wants her to do it again. She wants to show that the little piece was pretty against her pale hand. Pink, green, blue, yellow, red. Whichever color, really. The mother nodded, and Momo gladly created more and more. She paid close attention to her mother's facial expressions. And of she saw hope and pride, she tried to ignore the avarice behind her mask.

"Did you hear that darling ? Our daughter disobeyed the teacher today."

No, she didn't, really. She just refused to create more money, she became sick of the piece of paper everyone seemed to love. Because adults want more, more and more, and they quickly became tired of her own creation, her beautiful russion dolls. As a child, Momo was naive, but not stupid. They were using her, thinking it was easy to ask for money, just find an excuse and everything will be fine. Momo didn't disobey, she just used her brain, not her quirk, to answer that she found it vulgar to ask, every day, for an endless amount of billets. She started to hate the idea of money itself and tried to ignore their questions and their desires. And it worked for most of them. So why is her father still asking for money ?

"Did you hear that darling ? Our daughter wants to become a hero !"

Is it irony, sarcasm, cynicism hiding in her cheerful voice ? Does she really think her own daughter can't fulfill her dream ? Or is it just that her excitement doesn't sound like before because she's getting old, tired, annoyed, bored too much ? Is it because of the old routine taking over her everyday life ? Is it because Momo's quirk isn't that magnificent, extraordinary anymore in her eyes ? And when did her daughter's dream become the source of a bad joke ? And why was her father looking at her with so much disappointment when, really, her daughter just wanted to become one of the greatest heroes in history ?

"Did you hear that darling ? Our daughter doesn't want to marry this wonderful man we've chosen."

And she has her reasons. Momo quickly became a simple money-maker, creating money out of her body by simply marrying a man she didn't know. When did they find out that her fat cells, her skin, and the unknown mechanism in her head could make money ? And when did she sign for this ? Where is the proof that she accepted everything thrown at her without complaining ? Is it on her birth certificate ? Did she sign it once out, her lungs burning, under the heavy and new sensation that is oxygen and despair on a weak baby's body ? Or did she sign it between two billets created out of her sweaty palms ? Did she accept it ? And did she even have a say at the end ? Or does her voice sound like money hitting the ground ? Momo came to think that her quirk was a mistake, or that she just wasn't good enough. Being a boy could have helped, she thinks. Being dead could have helped, too.

"Did you hear that darling ? Our daughter can't create life because of her quirk."

And maybe Momo's happy about that. Maybe it's the only thing about her quirk that she can take pride in. Because if she really had the ability to give birth, to create some kind of life like her parents did, like so many parents did before her, she's sure that her baby would look like money.

* * *

Hey ~ Thank you again for staying with me. Sorry if it's short, sorry if it's bad. I'll try to do better in a next fic, maybe, or one-shots, drabbles, ... Sorry if I sound selfish or stupid.

Oh, et Naymanga, ne t'en fais pas du tout par rapport aux reviews, j'hésite aussi à écrire des reviews parfois, je me sens souvent monstrueuse à l'idée de critiquer le travail d'autrui, hé hé. Et ne te sens pas bête non plus, j'ai fait cette erreur tellement de fois à mes débuts d'anglais/français ! Et je suis heureuse que tu comprennes tout, j'ai un niveau d'anglais assez basique, disons que ça aide, hé hé. Et normalement, la fic sera en 29 chapitres, mais le 29ème n'est toujours pas écrit, je ferai un vote je pense, pour savoir si je dois écrire une fin angst ou fluff. Et en fonction du résultat, soit je fais une suite, soit j'écris des one-shots ou des fics à part. Tout dépendra, mais il y aura plus de précisions plus tard :) Merci pour ta review, ça fait toujours plaisir ~

Sur ce, buh-bye ~


	14. The seventh day

The trains are always emptier early mornings, especially a Sunday. Momo is calm, staying quiet on her seat. She observes the different landscapes of the city passing by behind the dirty windows, tainting her eyes with various colors. Today, the sky is stable, collected. No clouds, dark blue taint, the sun isn't awake yet. It truly is wonderful, the beauty of an endless sky when nothing, no one is here to bother her, to remind her how everything she once took for granted is now just a foggy memory, something she can't reach, can't grab with her small and trembling hands. She sighs, biting her lips furiously as her eyes can't focus anymore on the landscapes around her, outside of the metallic train. She closes her eyes, tiredness taking over her anger, and waits for her stop. People walk in, others walk out, they all look so worn out, tired, distanced by something greater, something they can't handle. Job, family, loss, debts, age, the constant evolution of the world around them, they can't follow the alterations. And while the world turn around the sun, they can only turn around their old routine, tired of a life they can't change. It's too much, and they're all too tired, exhausted. Some gave up and some still try but really, hope might be in their every words but it's not in their eyes. Nothing works out for them. At least, the train works, that's a plus.

The engine finally stops at the final station. Momo goes down with the other passengers. They all take different ways, turns, looking more at the ground than at the buildings. It's easier. Momo does the same. She shivers as the freezing wind of the mourning runs through her skin, piercing her bones. She yawns and engulfs her pink nose a little deeper into her scarf. She walks with discretion, trying not to make any sound, not wanting to disturb the sleeping world, the people still peacefully dreaming inside those buildings she doesn't look at. And if, from one open window, she can hear the cries of a newborn, she doesn't show it.

From afar, she can see the silhouette of Yuuei, intimidating, standing above all else. She quicken her space, jogs to the entrance, passing by security easily thanks to the magnetic ID card hanging between her index and her middle finger. Being a student helps. She walks quietly through the outside corridors and goes to the dormitory she shares with all the class. She still doesn't look up, ignoring the shy morning sun coloring the black sky with vivid pink and orange shades. It's too cold to look up, she thinks. When she finally enters the building, pushing the glassy doors, a sweet, overwhelming heat welcomes her, caressing her entire body reassuringly. She hangs her jacket and scarf and puts her shoes aside with all the others. She frowns, realizing she forgot her umbrella while in a hurry this morning. She shakes it off, tiptoeing to the living room and sits down on one of the free couches, breathing in the smell of pastries Sato must have cooked while she was away. This place, it's familiar, it's welcoming, it's home, what home should really feel like. Not fancy tabloids, not luxurious movables, not exposed money, not facets. It's true, it's comfortable, it's all so clear. She wants to stay hear, with the others, for as long as she can. She doesn't want to leave, she doesn't want to give up on her dreams. But she doesn't want to marry a stranger, give her body, her life, to a man she will surely never love, affectionate the least. She hugs her knees, burying her nose between them. It's too painful to think, too act, it's too painful to even breath sometimes, so what should she do ? Is there at least one person she could trust ? Of course, more than one even. Jirou being her best friend, and Shouto being… Shouto first. But she would be ashamed. Ashamed of her, of what of thoughts, of her words, of her choices, of so much. Would she be able to look at him for more than a second ? She's not even sure of that. This man is perfect, he doesn't her problems.

"Ah- no..."

She hides her head between her hands. It aches, the feeling deep in her chest, the comfortable yet loud sensation in her heart, it's overwhelming, it's jumping at her, putting its claws on her skin, in her flesh, marking her every being. It hurts, and she just realizes it now. Just now.

"Please, please, please, no..."

But she can't stop her feelings, her head screams at her that it's alright to feel the way she does, that it's being human, a proof of being alive and well. But her heart yells, yells louder than her head, that not now, not now more than ever, it's impossible, stupid, selfish, cruel. But it's not a joke out of context, it's true, it hurts, it cuts through her veins and pierces through her head. It's all too true. And it burns, it hurts, it tears her mind apart, blinding her, an inconsolable ache deep withing her skin she can't scratch away.

"What did I do ?" She sobs, soaking her hands. She can't see, it's all too dull. "Why me ?"

And she complains. Again and again, until someone finally wakes up and comes her way. Then she smiles, greets politely and despite the distance and the sudden formality in her voice, everything seems fine. She thinks that her house out of the city isn't the only thing seemingly false in her life. Maybe she's being false herself. Because even if she wants to screams, cry, tear her muscles apart, separate them from her body, she smiles and laughs all day. And now, she knows why her mother did that yesterday. It's all so easier that way.

* * *

 _Hey, thank you again. You're all always so sweet, thank you every much ! It warms my little heart, arf, thank you !_

 _Neymanga : Merci encore ! La fin dépendra vraiment du "vote majoritaire". Je prendrai ton choix en compte, mais sache juste que je ne suis pas vraiment douée en happy ending, hé hé. Et oui, j'écrirai volontiers en français ! Je ne suis pas vraiment fan de la sonorité de ma propre langue (disons simplement que je n'aime pas la langue française. C'es étrange, mais bon), mais je peux toujours essayer. Après tout, j'écrivais en français avant._

 _Ayzi : Thank you ! Sorry for answering late. I wrote about Momo's family because I, too, think that she deserves some kind of background. It's not that I dislike reading Shouto's family problems, in contrary, I find it highly interesting, it's just that I love Momo as a character, and I think she really should have more time for her. Jirou deserves that, too, but Momo's my fave character of the manga, so... Hé hé._

 _I'll do my best ! Thank you everyone, thank you for always reviewing, for always reading, and I'll see you in the next chapter !_

 _Sur ce, buh-bye ~_


	15. The eighth night

This state so loved, so awaited, freeing her mind from her constant discord, making her high, this state it seems she only lives for, it doesn't come anymore. Isn't felt, isn't part of her nights. She lies on her bed, she closes her heavy eyes, shuts down her thoughts, then she sleeps. Nothing comes in between full awakeness and sleepness. It's inevitable, unavoidable, unstoppable, she can't run away from her hatred sleep. She needs it, she knows it as much as anyone else, but she used to have a moment to relax, to forget, to become as high as the sky and as invisible as the wind, nonexistent under the billion eyes of the stars above her head, under the kind stare of the pale moon, like a mother watching over her kid. She used to find a way to make sleep come later than usual, later than needed. And despite her constant tiredness, she felt some kind of reassurance in this state. But now, she can't make sleep come late, she can only make it come sooner, too soon, making it burn through her tired mind and exhausted eyes. And as soon as her eyes close, as soon as her eyelids cover her eyeballs, block her view, she sleeps, slips, and falls. And it's not the sensation of sleep that greets her but the feeling of death, omnipresent over her still body.

After that, she usually dreams. It's not a vivid dream, it's not in beautiful colors like most, she doesn't see through her own eyes, she sees through the eyes of an omnipresent God, through maybe the subjective view of the invisible wind, watching over her loss, loss of everything, loss of so much, but doing nothing, witness of an injustice, manichean justice absent from the crime scene. It stays there, eyes her pitiful state, but does absolutely nothing. And, night after night, it never changes. Never.

And this time, when she opens her eyes again, it's to see the same scene again. Back to her room, her blurry husband at her side, like a curse she can't separate her body from, the punishment for her sins, the ones she committed without knowing. But this time, she's dressed. He shouts, yells at her, his inaudible voice making her hair stand from fear. At first, she doesn't know the reason of his anger, his literal rage and visible hatred against her. But then, slowly, she sees it coming. He hits. Hits her belly, her breasts, her genitals, and under the pain that she can't really feel, she slowly finds why his tantrum seems so violent. She finds why he hits, why he beats, why he screams, why his eyes glare through her entire being, seemingly wanting to just kill her on the spot. Right there and then, it would be easier to just get rid of her.

"Why can't you have a fucking child ?"

She hears that, she hears that too well. His other words are just a blur, falling on deaf ears and dead senses, but she can still hear those damn words. A question, an accusation, an affirmation. It's just a rhetoric question he spits again and again, repeatedly throwing his venom in her ears, in her clenched heart. He knows the answer, but he doesn't want nor need to hear it. Rhetorical, with a painful truth, because they both know that every gift comes with a prize, a consequence that stays, always. And Momo knows that too much now. Why would she create non-living objects when she can't create life ? She'll never hear a baby's first cries, she'll never hold a fragile and new human being, human she created on her own, she made. She'll never watch it grow, fall, stand, laugh, because she can't create it. It upsets her, knowing that she can create endless mechanisms, objects so difficult to make with long and complicated formulas, but can't even give back what life gave her ? She can't create life, but she made a reason. It's okay, she doesn't need it. But others seem to, they're counting on her. They're waited for her to create life. But if a mechanism is easy to understand, a woman's body isn't. And she can't create nor understand the whole situation, how everything works, and where's the problem she seemingly needs to fix. It kills her inside, deep, behind her own false reassuring words. She let them down, because she can't have a child, a chubby boy, girl, maybe both. She can't give them anything except maybe this pitiful excuse of a quirk. So he beats her, hits again and again, and it's like each blow is a knife planted deep in her skin, piercing, cutting through her flesh, but without the true pain. And, strangely, she wants to feel it, feel it tear her apart. Because she deserves it, she thinks, they made her feel and think that way. She deserves everything, they say. The pain, the shame. Because she can't give back what her mother offered. Life. Give it back, he screams. Give it back, give it back, you thief. But she can't, she only takes. Momo only takes. And right now, under his imaginary hits, his created yells and his drawn eyes, she doesn't know what hurts more. The fake blows she has to endure or the paper clips she can feel falling down her arms, legs, stomach, neck, cheeks, stuck behind her clothes, piercing with their metallic texture through her frail skin. It's like a single hammer hitting a thousand screws into her members. She truly doesn't know. Or maybe it's the shame. Yeah, it has to be it. The shame.

* * *

 _So, I'm really sorry but I won't be able to post on Wednesday anymore. I'm working with kids (they're between 6 and 8 years old) and they're all so cute ! But that's not the problem. The problem is that I come home too late to post. So now, I'll only be posting on Saturday, sorry._

 _Anyway, thank you very much for all your positive reviews, and thank you again for always following and staying with me. Thank you, and see you next Saturday !_

 _Sur ce, buh-bye ~_


	16. The eighth day

"May the gods bless you, young man," the elder woman sobs, smiling widely as she holds her young child between her weak arms. Shouto nods absentmindedly before running away, searching for other survivors. "Thank you !" she shouts from afar. He can feel the gratefulness in her voice, but he doesn't have the time to care too deeply about it.

They were training outside of the Yuuei usual territory when villains attacked the business center of the city, destroying a church, an elementary school and three and a half working buildings. The villains ran away after that, leaving the destroyed buildings fall behind them, not caring a minute about the screams and pleas echoing from under the fragments. Shouto was enraged at the idea of letting them leave like the criminals they are, but pro heroes directly ran after them. Eraser Head put his students to help and security, ordering them to save from the fragments the people they could see. They couldn't do otherwise, the terrorist attack was a total surprise, pro heroes weren't in this specific place when it happened. So Shouto at to search for adults, workers, teachers, priests, children, any person he could save on his own, and lead them to the safe perimeter outside, a fortune tent where injuries could be healed, where cries could be listened to. Everyone from class A was doing the job the best way they could, trying to find survivors, bringing them back to safety. Some were safe, with more fear than pain engraved on their faces. Some were injured, sometimes badly, and had to be rushed to the Recovery Girl or the nearest hospital, depending on their state. But others… Others just couldn't breathe anymore, crushed under tons and tons of rock, wood, metal. Under too much. These would never see the sky again, their families, their friends, never feel safety. And on the other side, survivors would never see their dearest friends, parents, siblings anymore. They would and wait and wait, and the only vision of deformed bodies, anonymous corpses, would turn their hope to aches. Shouto saw one of those unknown victims. One who's leg was ten meters away, who's head was crushed under a wall. He thought he could handle that as a future hero, but he was wrong. He couldn't. He didn't touch the body, didn't move the leg, didn't do anything. He apologized, felt awful of letting this person alone, not even knowing their name, but he ran away, not looking one last time at the body, his stomach twisting, his eyes watering. He joined the others, stumbling on his every steps, searching for survivors. And when he came back, everyone under the tent had the same expression. Fear, confusion, hatred and loss. He didn't know, until now, that loss had a special expression. But he's learned that it's ugly, heartbreaking, a terrible sight he wouldn't even wish his worst enemies to see. Loss is too harsh, it comes too soon. Always. And for everyone, it seems.

"Todoroki, we need help here !" Midoriya's voice calls, a hundred meters away. "Hurry !"

The distress in his voice forces him to rush. He jumps, freezes, burns everything holding him back, and rushes to Midoriya's side. Ochako and Tsuyu are here too, looking scared, marked. Midoriya screams more and more, alert. There's no time.

"Children are stuck under the walls ! A rescue team was already here to help the class but the walls fell on them, and Ochako can't use her quirk anymore. Do something, anything !"

Shouto is taken aback by Midoriya's voice, harsh but begging. He thinks. Ochako looks too sick, throwing up behind, crying out her apologies. Tsuyu holds parts of fragments threatening to fall, bleeding, trembling, her tongue stuck under the walls. She must have tried to help. And Midoriya can't do anything; His quirk serves for fight, not for rescue like this. His frustration show on his face, he greets his teeth, he doubts. So Shouto thinks, tries to find a way to save all of them.

"Asui, on the count of three, you let go. I'll freeze the walls. Ochako, you're a hero, don't let everyone down ! Midoriya, go to Recovery Girl and bring back the most bandages and meds you can, disinfectant, I don't care, you bring it." Seeing Midoriya's hesitation, Shouto curses, impatience and fear covering his figure. "Now !"

They all rush. Midoriya runs, forcing his broken legs to move despite his pain. Ochako gulps, standing weakly on her feet. She hurries to Shouto's side. Tsuyu waits, shaking more and more as the pressure on her shoulders and back become too much. Shouto puts his right hand on the wall. He tries to ignore the endless shaking his arms, proof of his own doubts. He curses under his breath.

"One-"

Tears spill through Tsuyu closed eyes. She bites her tongue even more.

"Two-"

Ochako stays by her side, reassuring thew gasps and gags her fearful friend. She tries to reassure the students at the other side of the walls, but she doesn't know of they can hear her.

"Three ! Now!"

She lets go and jumps forward, wincing at the stir she creates on her tongue. Shouto freezes the walls quickly, avoiding it from falling. Screams erupt from under, but they're all shushed by someone's voice. Ochako puts her hand on the ice and breathes. Inhales, exhales, she gags once more. They've bought time, it should be okay now. She makes parts levitate, little by little, everything goes away. The walls break, the ice shatters, creating a blinding cloud of dust and dirt. A rain of fragments fall, big enough to cut, but non life threatening. Tsuyu lets her tongue out, wincing again and again as cuts after cuts enter her bleeding mouth. Ochako stumbles, falls, throwing up again and again, nothing, it burns her stomach and she coughs and cries at the pain it creates. She heaves and Tsuyu rushes at her side. Shouto runs to the class, but an artificial cube blocks him. It's big, and despite its endless fissures, it stands. Shouto carefully destroys it, little by little, suddenly joined by Midoriya. Children's whispers come through the walls.

"Be careful please !" Shouts Mina. She's inside, too. "Kiddos, go back against the walls. Everything's going to be alright, you're safe now."

"Are they all alright ?" Midoriya shouts, voice weak.

"Yes, they're all safe ! Some are injured, but it's nothing bad," reassures Mina. But her voice hides, it seems scared, uneven. There's something off.

They slowly, cautiously break the artificial walls. Soon, all the children rush out, breathing in and out, welcomed, healed and reassured by Ochako, sick but smiling, Tsuyu and Midoriya. Mina rushes to Shouto, urgency in her eyes. Ojiro's inside, too. He hits the walls slowly, frowning, distressed. Mina almost cries. There's something off, really.

"Shouto, help, please. She's-" Her voice chatters, she looses her words. "Yaomomo's stuck, she- Ahh, she created created the wall but it was too much, she's-" She cries harder, hiding her face in her dusty palms. Ochako guides her outside, healing her wounds. Shouto rushes inside.

Her skin seems melted, mixing with the walls she urgently created to protect the children. Her eyes are closed, her costume's completely torn up and she's so gaunt, too much. Shouto doesn't find the strength to look away, he doesn't find the will to move, to hide her body. He just wants to save her, get her out of here. He joins Ojiro and hits slowly, so slowly, the wall around her. They try to free her, get her out, but her skin falls, too. They're not careful enough. But they don't have the time to.

"Ojiro, go help the others and heal your wounds. I- I'll take care of her. Please."

Ojiro thinks for a moment. His tail is badly wounded, his eyes seem tired, so little, and half of his costume is teared up. Multiple cuts linger his arms and legs. He sighs and nods, uncertainty blocking his movements for a moment.

"Be careful, alright ?"

Shouto nods and returns his focus. He can only do much. Keeping on and on, little and calculated movements. He breaks down the wall behind her slowly, so slowly. The first layer of her skin falls with it, he doesn't have a choice here. It's alarming, but she doesn't bleed. He takes her in his arms as she plummets to the ground, hugging her strongly while trying not to hurt her in any way. She breathes, she seems at ease despite her state. No wounds, no cuts, nothing seems broken or dislocated. She's just skeletal. She's naked under his arms, but he doesn't care. He just takes off his jacket and hides her. She looks so fragile, undressed under his arms, pale figure, shadow gripping at her skin. He hugs her, whimpering violently, her head on his shoulder, weak and slow breath whistling against his neck. Cold tears fall down his cheeks, cascading down her new flushed skin. They're cold, colder than the air enveloping them inside the walls she created with her own body, risking her life. He can't hold back his whimpers and sobs anymore. His heart races, his voice is loud, but he doesn't care. She's safe, she's alive. In a bad state, he doesn't know if she'll ever recover, but the steadiness of her heart tells him that she'll live through it. She's alive. That's it. And without him knowing, under his arms, silently, she cries.


	17. The ninth night

Desolation. That's what her body looks like. Gaunt, ribs showing, arms and legs too weak, her face paler than ever, her eyes locked up, closed behind ghostly and heavy eyelids, darkened by the bags under her eyes, giving her a livid image. She breathes with difficulty, and a mask covers her mouth and nose, part of her cheeks. She breathes so, so discretely, her chest doesn't rise, doesn't create any kind of friction on the hospital gown covering her. She stays still under the blue navy sheets of the hospital bed she lays in. Her skin seems transparent to Shouto's eyes, it almost shines under the spectral lights emanating from the little leds above the bed. Red, a glowing red, too weak to illuminate but too strong to be ignored. They're superficial, like Momo's breath, but they serve a cause, they're useful. Like Momo's breath. The young adult looks at the sleeping girl's hands. They twitch repeatedly, they surely throb, marked by the loss of skin. He examines her body, analyses every mark, every little scar, details forever drawn on her body. He explores with curious and worried eyes her curves, her cheeks, her eyelids, how every inch of her skin, despite the marks, despite the scars, the cuts, is unique. He peeps at her chest but quickly looks away, staring ashamedly outside of the window instead, squinting his eyes to catch a glimpse of the moon behind the cumulus partially covering the night's sky. He sighs and shuffles to the table at the other side of the room, sitting on one of the two blue chairs. He sighs again. He sighs too much. He can't deny anything, he's stressed. And right now, he's afraid- no, terrified, for Momo's health. He heard it from too many people, her mental's state isn't the best, but he didn't think it would create so much consequences on her body, weakling her quirk forcing her to use too much fat cells each time she creates something. She seems exhausted now that she stays silent. She's just sleeping, he knows, yet he can't help but feel furious at himself for not seeing anything, for not staying by her side when she really needed it the most. It's not his fault, they kept telling him this, it has became a common speech he hears at every conversations, but fuck, he loves her, how did he miss all these sighs she was silently screaming at them ? At him ? How could he ? he's so tired, but anxiety takes the best of him. _You won't sleep tonight_ , it sings, it mocks, every second. It yells he's mistakes, it's absurd. But he's just too scared for Momo to sleep, he can't help it, he can't help anyone, anything. He can't even help _her_.

"You shouldn't stay awake," a weak voice whispers behind him. It's muffled, he almost can't hear it, but it strikes him. He turns around, wide eyes staring carefully at her. "It's bad for your health."

If he could, he would laugh, at least smile, but he just finds the strength to jump at her side, hesitantly taking her twitching hands in his warm ones. He sits down awkwardly, still focusing on her half-closed eyes. She tries to smile again but the mask blocks her facial's expression, and she slowly drifts back to sleep. He doesn't know what to say and despite his desire to see her sleep a little longer for her health, he wants her to stay awake, talk, reassure him that she's okay. That she's safe.

"Momo, are you okay ? Do you need me to call a doctor ?" He breathes, his voice laced with worry.

"No, no, I'm fine. Just feeling a little dizzy."

They stay silent for a while, Shouto only watching her with fear, maybe love. Her eyes seem unfocused, looking hazily at everything. They stop for a second on Shouto's eyes, shining softly, and for a moment, they look more like broken pieces of morion stones than simple black iris. She smiles sweetly under the mask, her eyes closing. Her breath sounds more even and Shouto's heart calms down with hers, both suddenly at peace with the world around them. He smiles too, a little smile full of meaning. He closes his eyes with her, both never really falling asleep. They're in the same state now, waiting for the day to come, where every sense seems stronger yet agreeable. It's calming, and they both mentally visit the city, hand in hand.


	18. The ninth day

The ninth day

"Thanks to our doctors, she'll be able to leave soon. Tomorrow morning if her state stays stable for the night. We'll tell you all the details tomorrow. Until that, she needs to eat properly and everything's going to be alright," the nurse friendly whispers to Shouto, checking Momo's pulse. She scribbles down her notepad, pushes her black fangs behind her ears, then smiles at the relieved young man. "Do you need anything until that ?"

"No, thanks."

The kind nurse nods, walking out of the room as quietly as she can, throwing one last look at the sleeping student. Shouto, seeing the door close, stretches and takes the half-empty cup of water on the blue minimalist nightstand against Momo's bed. He gulps it down quickly, putting the plastic cup back on the table.

"You know, I never really slept this night," Momo's voice startles him. He gasps comically.

"Liar, I heard your snores."

"Oh ? When ?" Her tone is playful, it reassures him. He plays along.

"Around four in the morning."

"That's a lie, I was looking at you, you're the one that fell asleep."

She giggles, lifting her hand to her mouth, hiding a subtle yawn. She tries to sit down but her body's too weak again. Their smiles disappear. He puts his hands around her waist, lifting her in a proper sitting position. They both stay silent after that, Shouto going back to his sit aside the bed. They awkwardly look at one another, Momo fidgeting with the needle piercing her hand, Shouto scratching his wrist repeatedly behind his back. The silence is heavy, it almost hurts. Two strangers seemingly meeting one another, trying, maybe, to talk about the weather. They both feel like last time was the striking mistake throwing them back at step one. They need to talk, prove that wrong, they need to talk about so much. Commodities, their health, what happened, anything. Momo sighs.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice more breathy than she would have liked it. She coughs a little. "About worrying everyone, especially you. Did..." She hesitates a moment, searching for the appropriate words. "Did someone come this morning ?"

"Most of the class passed while you were sleeping," he replies, accentuating on the last word. He doesn't laugh, but she smiles as she spots his lips lifted a little at the corners. It's discrete, but it's here. It's a detail that makes them both at ease. "They all all asked for news. Even Bakugou was here."

"Most ?"

"Kyouka told me that Mina felt too ashamed and guilty to come. Even Ojiro hesitated at first. He apologized more times than I could count this morning."

"Oh, they shouldn't feel guilty," she mutters. She eyes him, voice a little louder, "it's my fault only." She wants him to understand.

He doesn't contradict her. He disagrees silently, really, but he learned as time goes by that telling her otherwise would just be pointless. One day, they'll see that it was no one's fault, that it was normal, a simple reaction coming from a future hero. But for now, they both wanted to take the blame. And the two lonely students were maybe too tired to hear this anyway.

"Is anyone injured ?"

Typical. He softly giggles, hiding his smile behind his hand. She looks quizzically at him, frowning. He stiffens a little and coughs, chasing his smile away. Indeed, it wasn't a matter of laugh.

"Some were badly injured, but nothing to be worry about. Just Midoroya's legs, Ojiro's tail, Kyouka's ears and Tsuyu's tongue. Otherwise, they're all just tired and… Hum… Marked by the event."

She knows why. They all saw it. Fear, panic, death. They all saw the bodies lying under the scraps, the ruins of what used to be a Gothic church, an elementary school and business centers. Windows scattered, walls fallen down, furniture burnt, bodies hidden, unrecognizable, people who will stay forever forgotten, unnamed because disfigured or missing. They'll remain silent, without correct funerals. And on the other side, survivors will remember. Class 1-A will never really erase those memories of describable corpses, those people, those people that they couldn't help in time, the blood that they walked in, the expressions of madness, worry, guilt, vulnerability, insecurity and resolution on everyone's face, even children. They all saw that, Momo saw it too, maybe more than Shouto can imagine. So they all will be marked, because no one saw it coming, because they all were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"… But they're all safe. Now."

She sighs, easily reading Shouto's expression. He's becoming more and more opened in front of her, he can't hide his thoughts any longer. Not when she's in this state, beautiful yet so fragile. She focuses on the sun setting outside at a peaceful rhythm, soloring the blue room with a warm orange and pink light. Her face isn't so pale now, it took back its soft shade. Her eyes are brighter too, focused, showing so much in so little time. Even feelings he can't find, can't read, can't deduce. So much hides behind those deep iris.

"Will you stay this night too ?"

Her eyes gaze is still observing the sun drifting away. They shine with a new interest, a new energy he didn't see before, and it's a stronger sentiment that colors them. They look more like two beautifully sculpted burgundy stones now, as round as the sun, catching the light around them. A kaleidoscope plays in her eyes. Shouto can't move.

"Until you leave, tomorrow."

"Thank you."

He sits at the edge of the bed, putting his left hand on her thigh. He turns his gaze away and stares at the sun, too. A minute passes by, no one says a word. Momo puts back her black fangs behind her ears slowly, diverting her gaze on Shouto's face. She details every part of his scar, every trace of history, of past marked in his skin, her eyes slowly crawling to his own. They shine with interest, patience, maybe love. They glow like Smoky quartz and indicolite. It's beautiful. He's beautiful.

"Shouto ?"

He hums, looking away from the sun to stare at her. They face each other intensely. Silence builds a cage around them, they both stay still. What remains of the sun burns their skin, shading the room with a purplish taint. Her eyes shine along the somnolent sun, she breathes silently.

"I'm engaged."


	19. The tenth night

For what must be the first time, he lets his tears fall freely in front of someone. They slip through his heterochromatic eyes, taint his cheeks with silver, glassy stains, float, pushed by gravity, and hit the ground silently, slowly evaporating under the sunset, slipping between the wooden tiles. He feels them, every tear, soaking his skin, his every pore. They tickle, they hurt, and they delicately mirror the purplish atmosphere in the warm room. He turns away, looking at the blue wall facing the bed, melting under Momo's gaze, her words, under the silence and below the prying eyes of both the sun and the moon. For what is now the first time again, he sobs in front of her. His shoulders shake, his every being trembles, he shivers, it's too cold now. Momo reaches for his back, embracing him from behind, her arms tightly laced around his chest. She softly hides her face in the crook of his neck, tickling his cheek with her hair. They're fluffy, softer than what he thought they would feel like, and they seem darker from here, right under his eyes, melting with his tears. He tenderly puts his hands on hers, sobs almost inaudible, muffled by her hair. His tears keep on falling dawn his cheeks, drowning his eyes, his vision, the room feels like an ocean, the bed like a makeshift raft, and they're sinking too fast, the stars mocking their tentative to just breathe, just breathe, please, breathe.

"I don't want it," she whispers, her voice underwater.

He feels her chest against his back, her heart beating so fast, latching his own heartbeat. Is it because if regret ? Love ? Fear ? What is her heart even beating for ?

"Since when ?" He manages to say, a pitiful undertone.

She doesn't answer, simply deepening her nose against his neck. Her breath is warm, heating even more his skin. She must be burning against his body. She doesn't move. And he knows, by her silence, by her heart beating so violently against her rib cage, her itching breath resonating against his own bones, how it's been too long now to go back. And he suddenly realizes that all their times together were stained by some kind of greater strength, one she bared on her own, one he didn't even see. This time where they truly talked out of class, breathing the same fresh air, taking in the agreeable weather, this time when she asked him about his thoughts, his goals, his dreams. Everything changes, it becomes suddenly too clear for him, his mind bursts open, letting pictures after pictures immerse his souvenirs, deepening him even more under the abyssal territory of a sea he couldn't swim out of. All this time. All this fucking time. He should have seen it.

"I must be a terrible hero, right ? I have the words, but not the actions. I should have known," his voice trails, his tears follow. The raft touches the end of the ocean, it's too deep for them, it's suffocating. "I was too blind."

"It's my fault, I didn't tell you anything," her voice's slow, too, weaker than when she woke up. It hurts.

"Then why ? Why didn't you day anything ?"

He knows why. Shame, a certain amount of pride and a lot of respect for those parents that don't deserve it, those so supposed responsible adults she should hate, but can't. She loves her freedom, but they gave her the permission to breath, to live.

"I could have helped..."

And they both know it's a lie. They both know that nothing, no one could have changed it. There's no happy-ending, but there's no sad-ending either. It's an in-between, when no one's really happy, there's no satisfaction in being alive and well, but at least no one's dead. It's an ending where lies, boredom, deception and desire paints the walls of their house, house that doesn't feel like home. Todoroki wants to change that, to save her freedom, dire, tangible freedom, but despite his beautiful words and heroic thoughts, he doesn't know what to do, how to proceed. They teach you how to fight, not how to negotiate. It comes later, when everything's already finished, when the deal's closed. When it's too late. You can save a life, but can you really change it ?

"I hate it..."

Her voice is low, muffled by his burning skin and her high regrets. Her tears soak his shirt, his skin, but he doesn't feel anything. It evaporates, like time, it slowly but surely goes away. He delicately turns around, putting his hands around her neck, hiding his own face in her hair. It's uncomfortable, it hurts their back, their legs, but they both stay still, under each other's warmth, support, under the small moonlight high in the sky, crying on them her sorry rays of stolen light. It's not changing anything, it's not helping them in this dire situation, but it's illuminating them a little, and that's all they can ask for in this room that seems too dark.


	20. The tenth day

"Yaomomo, do you feel better ?" Jirou's voice pierces through her ears. It's loud but familiar. That's all she needs now. Familiarity.  
"I'm better."  
"You look pale though," murmurs her best friend, throat strangled with concern. She frowns, her black eyes scanning Momo's unusual thin frame.  
"Don't worry, I feel all new. Todoroki made sure I'd eat properly once out this morning."  
Kyouka snickers at Momo's honey voice. "I saw that, I saw that."

Momo blushes lightly, hiding her small smile behind her fingers. She ignores the way her unpolished nails cut her lips. She throws an accusing look at them. They're white, transparent, displaying her pinkish skin. Looking closely, they shine like broken glass. She puts her hands back on her lap and clears her throat, trying to hide her sudden desire to just cut them to the flesh with sharp scissors, waiting for little droplets of blood to slip through the thin gap between her nail and her finger.

"Is Mina here ?" She asks more seriously. Kyouka nods.  
"Actually, she just wanted to speak to you personally. She's outside of the class." Momo stands up from her seat, letting her bag aside. Kyouka catches her wrist softly, face contorted with worry. "Just… Whatever you decide to say, please, don't yell at her. I know you, you're not gonna do it, but… You know, she already feels guilty enough."  
Momo regrets not paying more attention to Kyouka's traits. They're more expressive than she thought, once illuminated with concern. "I won't, you know me."

Kyouka sighs with relief, smiling fondly at her friend before letting her go. Her hand floats around the tall girl's arm, her calloused fingers, marked by many fights and guitars' strings, her nails cut clean. Momo looks at her wrist while walking out of the room silently, already blocking the happy chatters behind her. The hallways are full of students chatting joyfully, some tired, some unfocused, some alone. She doesn't want to know why, she already has enough on her own. How selfish. Mina waves timidly at her, in opposition with her usual happy manners. Momo walks to her, passing through waves of students, a little smile engraved on her cheeks, trying to reassure the already stressed out Mina. It works, she smiles back, a little.

"Good afternoon, Yaomomo," she shouts out over the incessant chattering around them. She stiffens against the wall, her eyes darting everywhere.  
"Good afternoon, Mina," she answers, voice louder than intended.

They both stare at each other silently, thinking about their next step. Tsuyu passes by, waving. They wave back, looking away. An excuse, a friend they could secretly use as distraction. Momo sighs, wanting to talk, but Mina clears her throat and almost shouts, bending forward.

"I'm sorry Yaoyorozu, excuse me for my pitiful help !" She squints her black eyes, letting her citrine irises shine through between her eyelids. They catch the sun, reflect every ray with beautiful light, and they suddenly seem deeper, every detail looks sharper, they catch the beauty of the afternoon. Momo sees deep orange shades, and it almost looks like they display an autumnal painting. She shudders as she finally sees the beauty they hold. But Mina closes her eyes, restraining her tears from falling, biting her lip. Momo strokes her shoulder and embraces her carefully, earning a light gasp from the pinkish girl between her thin arms.  
"You don't need to apologize, I've been reckless on my own," she cuts Mina from intervening, smiling fondly. Mina sobs quietly on her shoulder, Momo shushes her. "I'm the one who decided to use my quirk like that, it's not your fault. But if you want me to forgive you," she smiles against her pink ear, ignoring the faded chatters at the end of the hallway. "Then it's already done."  
"You're not mad ?" She grossly sobs, face contorted with happiness and surprise, like a child. Momo laughs.  
"I'm not, I promise."

Mina jumps with happiness, her squeals taking over the chatters. She strongly embraces Momo before running off, whispering one last apologize to her. Momo kindly smiles, waving uselessly at a moody Bakugou passing by. She stays out for a minute, leaning against the clean wall, aside class 1-A gigantic wooden door. Students slowly separate, dissipating actively, walking off to their class. Silence slowly yet surely falls over everything else and for a moment, Momo thinks she can hear the dust plummeting to the ground. The hallway seems bigger, larger, and the ceiling suddenly seems higher, too high. Dizziness takes over her mind, she leans even more against the wall, cooling her neck against the cold material behind her. Maybe, if she applies a little more pressure against the wall, it'll swallow her up, never letting her go again. Goosebumps cover her arms, her legs, making her socks' fabric suddenly irritating. She sighs. Everything seems so colossal, so intimidating when silence covers it all. She can't decide if she likes it or not, of she prefers silence, endless quietness, hiding chaos and fears behind nothing, behind a nonexistent sound, or if she prefers a thousand words, voicing so much, telling, counting, singing, good or bad, as long as it fills the nothingness of silence. She doesn't know what she wants. A mind full of thoughts or a mouth full of pleas. Freedom or dreams. Giving up on her body or giving up on her future. She slides along the wall, sitting on the cold and dusty ground. She violently closes her eyes as the sunlight burning through the high windows hits her face. She opens them slowly, carefully, taking in the strong light. She squints her eyes ever so slightly, enough to clear her view, enough to see the sun up on the cloudless blue sky, and enough to make the burning star wave, tremble under her thick eyelashes. The constellation seems kinder through them, like stuck behind the black bars of a secured prison, and she wonders how high she should get to join the sun, high in the sky, far from earth. Footsteps echo against the walls, cutting her thoughts abruptly. She looks at her left, spotting Aizawa in front of the door, staring at her pale figure on the ground. She didn't hear him coming down the hallway.

"I know what you're thinking, stop that. And don't look at the sun like that, you'll burn your eyes," he orders tiredly, an inch of kindness hiding behind his trailing voice. Momo stands up, brushing dust off her skirt.  
"Sorry," she whispers as she walks to the door, ignoring the little paper clip that fell off her thigh, the tip of the small metallic object sticking to the fibers of her sock.  
Aizawa holds the doorknob firmly, preventing her from opening the door. Silence. A moment. "Did you decide ?"

Momo's taken aback by his sure yet soft and discrete voice. She stays silent for a moment, thinking about her previous discussion with Shouto. His grip on the doorknob becomes firmer. It shakes.

"Not yet."

Both of their voices are slow, careful, little against the vast silence in the hallway surrounding them.

"you know, I talked with the dean and the staff about your situation," she winces, not wanting her situation to circulate too much. Too late. He looks deeply in her unsure dark eyes, a little smile playing on his face. "They all agreed to help you for the next year's taxes." She jumps with surprise, eyes shining under the sun's strong and encouraging light. "After all, it'll be your last year here, and it'd be a shame to loose a student like you along the run. You're almost a hero now."

She covers her mouth with trembling hands, squinting her eyelids, her small salty tears falling like heavy pearls on the ground, soaking her thick black eyelashes. He pats her back, letting an inaudible puff escape his mouth behind his scarf. He's patronizing her, she knows, but she doesn't care. It feels too good to care. He opens the door and everyone sits, silent.

"Go back in class when you're ready," he says. But his voice seems softer, and his words become like wind, quickly withdrawing from the hallway, never to be heard again.

He disappears behind the wall, closing the door as he enters. She sobs loudly, bending over, falling on her knees. She's sure her sobs can be heard from inside the class, but she doesn't care anymore. They fill the silence and suddenly, her smile seems bigger than the hallway.


	21. The eleventh night

The eleventh day

Her body faces the moon, naked and cleaned skin glowing under the ghostly white light. Her half-closed eyes, tired, heavy, observe and analyse every star high above her head, above the silent streets, where no soul dares wandering. She draws and traces with the tip of her index the far constellations she can see. The claw of a celestial scorpion, Libra, shines pridefully in the sky. Not far away, Ursa Minor decors the sky with its familiar form. Maybe she can see Virgo dancing under some lonely gray cloud, but she's not sure, it's not the good time in the year for this one. She lets her hand fall, forgetting about the stars for a moment. She sighs. It's cold, goosebumps regularly decorate her arms, legs and chest, but she stays out, legs hanging from the window she sits in. She feels the nothingness under her feet, she feels the wind mimicking a mattress under her naked feet, preventing her from falling, and she feels the moon, glowing like a thousand fireflies, perfect shape of rock and light, illuminating the dangerous night. It's pleasant and calming.

From far away, she can see a single soul wandering, feet drained empty from envy, mind drained entirely from motivation. The soul might see her, she thinks, but she doesn't move. The idea of someone she'll never meet, she won't have to marry seeing her body, it gives her some kind of pride. Her body is hers, she doesn't care about the prying eyes of a thousand souls. She shakes this thought away as the lonely soul slowly walks away, throwing one last glance at the school's gates before disappearing into the blue darkness of the night. From the corner of the street where the soul just disappears, she thinks she can hear a familiar music she already heard before, but she doesn't remember where exactly.

Momo quickly forgets about it, shivering more at the idea of the unknown hiding at every corner, too insignificant to see, too little to pay attention to, too silent to even find, yet too omnipresent to forget. She shivers from the cold too, from the fear, but not from hate. She doesn't hate anymore, she's safe now, high above the hard concrete she could just fall to, life hanging. If she were to fall, would the ground embrace her like its own child ? Would it swallow her whole and never let her go ? She tries to brush this thought away, too, but it seems too tempting to ignore. She looks down, then up. Would the wind even let her touch the ground ? Would it let her fly high, touch the sky, stoke the clouds she contemplated for so long now ? She sighs again, not being able to throw her thoughts away. It drains her energy out, but she feels serine. She's safe here, in this familiar room, in this school, where her future is drawn beautifully. She thinks of her costume. She might modify it now, the belt around her hips is uncomfortable and unaesthetic. She could put her book on her back, or make the belt smaller. She yawns, arms stretching to the sky. She jumps down from the window, directly landing on her bed. It makes sound, but not enough to wake anyone up. And the sound of broken springs seems quite melodic against the silence of the night. She lays down, thin sheets covering her non-recovered body, and she closes heavy eyelids, looking one last time at the moon through her thick eyelashes.

Slowly, everything becomes so tangible. The buzz of bugs, the songs of starving mosquitoes, the wind's melody, every whistle of every breeze, the frictions the sheets create against her visible ribs like fingers playing on a piano, her own breath breaking through the silence like a blade. Everything seems stronger yet softer, lulling her mind, making her cheeks turn red from the calmness. It's agreeable, like a loving mother's caress, and she wishes unconsciously for her state of hypnagogia to never stop. Her mind drifts away, far away, far from her body, tempting her out of the city, out of the country. She unconsciously sighs. Slowly, very slowly, her body relaxes, every sense disappears, her thoughts come back, but everything stays right where she left it. Her calm, her love, every feeling, every thought, every sensation, it stays in her heart comfortably. And for the first time since forever, she dreams of love, of hope, of freedom, of what she won't lose this Friday, because she finally made up her mind. The same words muse her, she dreams of saying them again and again, right hand holding a warm one like two pieces fitting together perfectly, and she hears her voice singing them with determination and hope. She pieces them together, and the melody that follows must be the most beautiful and poetic one she ever heard coming out of her mouth.

"I want to stay free."

It spins and spins and spins. And she loves it. Every second, every vision, she loves it. Once again, she feels safe.


	22. The eleventh day

The eleventh day

She feels so free, her body dancing, her shadow only a silhouette on the wall, her skin stroked by the wind, by all the objects and weapons she creates, one by one, falling off her her skin, taking with them fears and hatred. She dances, fights with enthusiasm, a smile plastered on her flushed face. The sky is painted with a beautiful baby blue above her dancing figure, the sun greets and encourages her with its warm light. Blades shine, swords fly, she turns and runs and jumps, tries to reach for the small moon, insignificant at day, watching over her. Her smile seems brighter than the light as she creates endlessly, not caring about her weight any moment. She feels safe, she doesn't try to stop, to breathe, doesn't try to give up, using her body as her will. So she moves with agility, hits don't touch her, she fights like a feline, more than before. A net slowly breaks through her skin, and in one swift and calculated movement, she throws it at her opponent, Tsuyu. She doesn't react fast enough, and her tongue is quickly tangled with the heavy fibers. Momo sighs, tired but relieved, that her performance worked so well. She physically feels the weight of the many consequences on her stamina, but she also feels her progressions. Tsuyu smiles too, defeated, exhausted. Momo takes the net and throws it aside, holding her hand for Tsuyu to take. They both giggle, a little exhausted.

"You made many progress, Yaomomo," Tsuyu croaks, panting slightly. Her pinkish tongue moves like a cat's tail, and Momo finds herself fascinated by the regular movement.

"It's thanks to you and everyone else."

"You're too modest."

They laugh again, bending forward before walking off the stage. They're greeted by the others from class 1-A as Mina and Kaminari walk proudly and determined after them. Momo sighs again, releasing a long breath hidden behind her ribs. Her vision is a little blurry at the edges of her half-closed eyes, she didn't recover well. She knows deep down that she'll never fully recover, but she feels okay, safe and perfectly fine despite her tiredness and her loss of appetite. She pushes through her nauseous moments and eats, for her own sake, for everyone's joy and relief. And thanks to her efforts, she did good, she doesn't need to think twice about that. Yes, she did too much, she overreacted to every attack, loosing energy uselessly, but she won without hurting Tsuyu, even less her tongue, covered with scars. She doesn't need to ask, she already knows how she got those. So she fought just by threatening her and hitting here and there, without much strength into it. And it worked. She sighs again at this idea, walking to one of the free seats on the benches. She sits and takes one of the full plastic bottles, emptying effortlessly its content. A hand presses her shoulder while she drinks, surprising her.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," whispers Shouto behind her, staring at the quick fight in front of them. "Just wanted to say that you did great."

She puts the bottle aside as Shouto sits at her right, as usual. She smiles. "Thank you."

"You were beautiful," he bluntly says, a discrete shade of pink coloring his ears. Momo looks at him, surprised, eyes wide open. They shine like hematite stones, round and opaque, glowing like non-reproducible jewels. Shouto gulps. "You truly were."

She smiles even more, blushing endlessly. "It feels like billion flames caress her body, but it feels so good. The sensation is new, agreeable. "Thank you," she whispers, hiding her face in her sweaty palms, feeling as her stomach flips. "Thank you very much."

A small grin plays on his features. He draws her figure with precision, contouring her body, taking in every detail he can, trying to remember her new appearance, weaker but now determined, freed of so much troubles, it seems. He feels a rush of blood on his face as she smiles, teeth reflecting the sun above, eyes half-closed, flushed from the exhaustion, maybe more. He looks back at the new fight playing on stage, Bakugou and Kirishima already fighting. Neither Shouto nor Momo know who won before.

"Do you feel better ?" Shouto asks, looking with a new interest at the intense fight.

"I do," she looks at the fight too, analyzing every movement, every weakness she could use for later. "I truly feel better, for once."

Her honesty warms his heart, he can't erase his grin anymore. It's engraved on his cheeks, he can't help it. He feels different, but the meliorative side of this sudden change doesn't look as terrifying as before. "Good," he breathes.

Bakugou's screams soon replace every chat, his explosions falling like endless bombs on Kirishima's hardened body. They both stand up proudly, panting but still fighting. Everyone's question isn't answered, it ends with a draw. They both walk exhaustively to the benches, Bakugou's smile being the most unexpected surprise they could all get. Todoroki stands up, brushing his palms against his hips. Momo smirks and nods at him. He nods back, smile still in place, and for everyone in the class, it must be the second most unexpected surprise of the day. However, they don't ask, just speculate joyfully. Kyouka stands up too, running on the stage with a newfound determination. And just like that, they both bend over, and Aizawa starts the fight.

Every movement is deeply elaborated, every gesture, centimeters, details cover the fight. Waves of sounds, waves of ice, a rain of violence and beauty, distortion of heartbeats and cold sculptures of strong ice. It breaks and consolidates, no one moves around the stage. They all watch with confidence and maybe surprise, because the two opponents stand high, chin up, facing with a blinding determination each other. And as the ice breaks one more time, shots of fire come one by one, being dissipated with difficulty by the fast waves of sounds and wind. They're both too tired and, at the end, the fight becomes even more violent. Hits after hits, they all miss. They pant, they sigh, no one really makes it to the top. They move quickly, they jump, they turn, but Kyoka's unfocused glare looses her, letting an opportunity for Shouto to freeze her right flank. The ice spreads all long her hip, her leg, taking over every inch of her skin and, just like that, Kyouka can't move anymore, stuck under layers and layers of thin and translucent ice. She chuckles, embarrassed, looking at the sky while Shouto melts the ice. Everyone in class A cheers, applauding the beauty of the fight. The two opponents stand up, bending forward in respect and gratefulness. They congratulate their performance before walking off the stage, panting heavily. Shouto slowly walks back to Momo. She holds a bottle of water for him as she congratulates Kyouka for her strong fight. He thanks her before emptying the content quickly, breathing between every gulp. He sits down at her side, letting his hand fall on her shoulder. She doesn't push it away, accepting the new warmth on her skin. They both accept it. It's comfortable, new, welcomed.

"You did great," she whispers teasingly. He scoffs.

"You could have found something more original," he teases back. She laughs loudly, and it's a new genre of music to his ears. It seems louder than Kyouka's heartbeats, yet it doesn't hurt. "You know I'm not good with words."

They stay silent after that, Momo nodding with delight. The next fight starts, opposing Hagakure to Ochako. Shouto leans back, feeling the warm wind of the afternoon cooling his back under his burnt jacket. He sighs.

"You know," the new tone hovering above her voice surprises him. It's weak yet determinate, smoky yet sure. She looks at him, eyes sparkling. "I know what I'll chose tomorrow."

For a second, Shouto doubts. "What ?" His voice quivers, she hears it. She smiles reassuringly.

"I'll stay. With you." A single paper clip falls down her cheek, as blue as the sky. Shouto's eyes shine with his tears, aquamarine and jet stone eyes expressing a thousand of emotions at the same time. He hears his own heartbeat hitting against his temples. He engulfs her frail silhouette under his arms. "Thank you. Thank you."

No one looks at them, they all let them the privacy they need. The fight on the stage goes on and, from afar, Aizawa smiles. They all smile.


	23. The twelfth night

The twelfth night

Her body heats up under his arms. She speaks fruitfully, voice appealing yet softer than cotton, her breath brushes against his ear. He answers too, his mouth coming close to her shoulder, his eyes locking with hers. Under the fresh night's breeze, skin against skin, their intimacy is kept a secret, what's beyond the sky being the only witness of their proximity. Words are spoken quietly, almost a whisper, already too loud for the silence surrounding them. Little giggles make her chest heave, she hugs him, he hugs her, too. They're searching for love, for intimacy, for contact, warmth, maybe comfort, away from the fear of the day. Night seems calmer, easier, everything seems so small once together, it all looks so simple. Nothing, no one can stop their choices, their words, words spoken discretely to one another, no one else, just the two of them, mouths brushing, teeth hitting, lips swollen and eyes half-closed. The sheets are neatly positioned on their legs, the pillows are comfortably put behind their backs, and they both lean against the white bad's head, painted wood cooling their skin. Soft words, lips almost closed, eyes shining through squinted lids, they talk about nothing and everything, promises, lies, choices, events, every subject seems interesting now. His left hand caresses her bare back with ease, his right hand strokes her own pale hands, thumb exploring her palms, every mark of past she owes to many battles, many accidents. He details the scars lingering her fingers, he draws the lines separating every phalanges. She sighs against his cheek at every new movement, chuckles at every tickle, nods of pleasure at every compliment, blushes at every kiss, smiles at every stroke. He peppers with tender kisses her cheeks, she does the same on his own. And between every sentence is another intimate movement, another loving kiss, another beloved and needed contact. They welcome those private gestures. They need those. Too much happened too quickly, strong feelings took over the both of them, and the desire to just stay close made its way in their young mind. It's pure, true, clear and clean as new water, and it glows deep in their eyes, bringing out the beauty of their detailed irises. And it's a thousand gems that they can see under each other's eyelashes. It truly is beautiful.

They sense the tension, outside of Momo's room. Out of here, out of the warmth, out of the privacy, out. Where love can't be shown, where choices can't be made, where everything can hurt. It's where unknown people can separate her from her deserved freedom, her deserved love, where people can rip her away from his arms in one swift, calculated motion. They can feel the animosity the next day will bring, they can feel every cloud coming with a newfound hostility, already blocking with their untouchable body the sleeping sun. They almost can hear the words already threatening them. Momo tries not to care, she already made her choice, even if she risks so much by doing so. But Shouto fears the day to come, fears her parents, fears the man that will maybe take her away. He trusts her with all his mind and heart, but he doesn't trust them, the others wanting to take force her into a wedding, an entire life she doesn't wish for. And they both feel it, the danger out there, standing stiffly behind the closed wooden doors. But they try to forget just for this night, this time they can spend together, far from the eyes, far from the rumors. And, fear hanging in the back of their young mind, unspoken love clouding their eyes, they breath out with smoky voices the three words they could never say out loud before. They hug each other's body tightly, they undress quickly and, under the hidden moon's light, they lay down and close their sleepy eyes. Hypnagogia comes and for a long time, they can't count the minutes passing by, they only feel the wind gently blowing their hair away. They hear the curtains closing violently, pushed by the strong breezes, they hear the air around them whistling along the night's sudden rhythm, they hear the sky dancing above their head. They hear it all.

Oh, is it a storm coming their way ?


	24. The twelfth day

The twelfth day

 _Hel-_

It was in the middle of class that they heard the first loud and obnoxious knock at the door. It was a calm morning, the windows were slightly opened due to the warmth emanating from the students overworking. The air felt heavy, too heavy for the teenagers. Fresh air and slow breeze were refreshing their minds, easing their task. They only could quietly listen to the mechanic clock's regular ticking as they were filling the missing parts of the test they had to complete. The knock was a surprise they didn't need. They almost complained, but they did their best at the test anyway, quickly forgetting about the intruders at the other side of the door. They heard the faded footsteps going away from then class. Aizawa didn't think about it more, he quickly forgot, too. About one hour passed without any notable disturbance. They had two hours remaining to complete the morning's test.

But after this moment of peace, another knock echoed against the door. It wasn't that loud, suddenly made by someone different. In fact, the knock was almost inaudible, except for the students against the wall, near the door. They didn't pay much attention and just kept on reading the questions. Aizawa groaned and tiredly made his way to the door, not bothering the students.

The second knock was louder, impatient, hitting stronger against the wooden door. Some students looked annoyingly at the door, bothered by the sound every knock following the first one was emitting. It was getting louder and louder, Aizawa fastened his steps, opening the door quietly, the sound of the wood sliding against the tiled floor almost as loud as a whisper. The students went back to their task, writing in a rush the answers they could have completed during those precious seconds they lost.

But heavy, angry footsteps cut their newfound concentration. A man with black, pushed back hair and strict brown eyes, intruded the silent class, followed by a graceful woman, blond curly hair falling freely on her shoulders, gray eyes scanning through the class, anxiously searching for something, someone. He pushed passed Aizawa. Todoroki, at the time, heard a muffled gasp at his left, and looked deeply into Momo's eyes, spotting behind the gray teary gems shining under the morning light her fear, her surprise, more importantly her confusion. He almost immediately found the answer to everyone's question. Those two intimidating, well-dressed adults were Momo's parents. He tried to reach for her hand but the man, eyes judging every inch of his being, caught her own trembling hand before him, and forced her to stand, making her test plummet to the ground, her pens roll and roll, fall off the table. Dozens of paper clips, as brown as her father's eyes, fell down her thighs, her arms, her neck, even her cheeks, cascading like tears, replacing the ones she couldn't cry out of fear. Shouto remembers the broken sound of her voice, like blocked by paper clips created inside her throat, too. He remembers her pleading eyes, looking through his own, yelling silently for the help she needed the most. He remembers the harsh words her father was blurting aloud, breaking through everyone's mind, stopping every attempt at moving, at doing something. And he remembers well his own fear, how every word the man could say was stopping him from helping her. He wanted to move, to run at them, to catch the hand he tried to reach for seconds ago, but something, a greater force, was stopping him, forbidding him from even objecting. And now, now that he can run, now that he can feel the burning flames behind his neck, he remembers her cries, outside the room, behind the walls, Aizawa's objections and attempts to stop them covering every sound. How even the teacher's voice sounded distressed, taken aback by the sudden turn of event the day took. How a peaceful day became on of the worst. And while Aizawa's words were falling on deaf ears, vain complains only echoing uselessly, Shouto threw his fear aside and ran.

Now, Shouto runs. He tries to find her, to cry out her name, but he only runs, voice stuck inside his lungs. Part of his uniform is burned, Kyouka behind him, tears of confusion blurring her vision, part of the class yelling at them to come back, Midoriya trying to reason them. And despite their words of wisdom, they're lost, too, too confused to comprehend. He feels his breath coming out harsh, cut, shallow, his own body feels like a broken machine made out of despair and desire. Her name escapes through his parted lips, and it sounds heavy, breaking through the air like shattered glass. His lips feel chapped, cut, tearing apart at every movement, at every new breath. Adrenaline burns his veins, yet he feels tired, so tired. His course slows down, he tries to catch up with her, but a sudden figure blocks him, purple smoke invading his nose, his lips, filling his lungs and blurring his thoughts. Midnight stands in front of him, Kyouka falls at his side, face first into the concrete. The adult's face is contorted with worry, eyes burning holes on the walls.

"Go back to class."

It's all she manages to say, taking them under her arms, voice foggy, quavering. Shouto tries to fight back, to run, to show any sort of disagreement, but he's pushed, he's forced, and a sudden tension clouds his vision.

"We'll find a way."

But he can't wait, he can't. Especially when, once siting uselessly behind his wooden desk again, he sees her copy on the ground, clean, proper sheet, with only good answers neatly written. One of the words is unfinished, letters are cut, only half of the word, cursively written with blue ink, is marked on the clean page. And he knows what the word is, even if it's incomplete. He knows too well, it almost yells at him. That's what he couldn't force himself to do, stuck behind his own fears, his stupid past. That's what he didn't do when she asked him silently. He cries, Midnight by his side, Kyouka raging on her desk, Midoriya's muffled words filling the silent. They all look defeated. Shouto even more. Because he knows what's happening, he knows what she needs more than ever. It's unfinished, written unclearly on the page laying on the ground. Anyone could read it.

 _Hel-_


	25. The thirteenth night

The train is gone. Gone, like everything else. Every image out of the train passes and goes, it never stays. The pictures out are too tedious to see, stains of green, pink, black, blue, white, it all mixes outside, behind the shaking plexiglas windows, where no one could reach, even if they endlessly try. It's out, where the wind blows too strongly, where every droplet of evening dew burns like acid, where every cloud seems like black smoke intoxicating the air, her lungs, they melt with the train's smoke, flying freely in the sky she can't see, she can't make out correctly, the train is too fast and her eyes are too tired. The air is heavy, too. It crushes her on her seat. It reeks of sweat and lies, too, it hits her nose, makes her gag. Her eyes tear up because of it. Maybe because of something else, surely too much things at once, but she tries to focus on one and only one thing. One at the time. Breathe. Fill your lungs with hope and exhale all your bad thoughts. She does, and the smell hits her even more. She focuses on the terrible smell instead of on this tragedy. And for a moment, it works.  
But soon, she's out of the city, and the painting outside changes. Melted buildings are replaced by unfamiliar landscapes, ones she must have seen before but long forgotten, maybe purposely erased. And this change, the speed the train takes, makes her head spin. The smell isn't enough anymore. The familiar lull of a piano composition plays discretely, repeating the same notes again and again, almost inaudible against the regular sound of the metallic train. One, two, three, one, two, three. She steals a glance at her parents silently arguing from afar and takes her phone out of her small pocket discretely. Dozens of names are displayed on her screen. They all tried to contact her in a way. The guilt of her silent burns her throat. She couldn't answer their call, not like this, not now, stuck in her own train of thoughts, hostage of her own parents. But the names on the screen, lighting upon her hand shakily holding the phone, make her tear up again, and her wet and bloodshot eyes stare intensely at one familiar name. She badly wants to answer but she fears being caught by the two human-like monsters with her parents' names and appearances. The regular piano plays again, and his name flashes on her eyes. She fixes the screen, her parents and, hesitation buzzing on her mind, she slowly unlocks the phone, giving a chance to Shouto's voice to inaudibly penetrate her ears. She doesn't understand a word he says. He runs, he's out of breath, he seems alert and lost, worrying for her, for himself, for their own future as heroes, as adults, as lovers. He seems to worry too much about too many, and she can't blame him. She worries too, about the same. And this familiar, that yells his love, his promises, this voice that only wants to bring reassurance, helps her little heart, makes her calm and hopeful again, despite the lack of understanding. She only hears his voice, and that's the only sound she needs, crushed under a ton of metal, iron, heavy air and disgusting smell. She sighs and he seems to hear her, he becomes silent on the other side of the line. But his constant panting and heavy breath prove that he's still running, running to catch her, to find her, help her in the best way he can. She bends down, head over scratched knees, and breathes through the thin fabric of her green skirt.

"I'm going back home. Please, Shouto, find me," she whispers, breath shallow, hot against her cold legs.  
"Where do you live ? Are your parents with you ?" He's tired- no, exhausted, and voices behind his own tell her that he's not alone.  
"I live out of the city. I'm in a train, the last one. We'll stop at the terminus, it's not far. I'm begging you, hurry," she says too loudly, her voice quivering, bouncing against the train's shaking walls. Footsteps echo against the metallic ground, she knows they heard her. "Please, get me out of here," and before he can answer her pleas, her phone is taken away and thrown out by the opened window, becoming only a gray stain melting with the night. "Please !" she extends her arms, trying to catch what she would never be able to catch. But she soon shakes her begs away, fearing her father's hand falling on her instead.

The slap is too loud for her ears. It resonates against her bones, the sound of her father's palm hitting her skin stays in her head, bringing a headache she never experienced before. She can't even hear her cries of pain and pleas. She can't even recognize her own voice anymore. It hurts.

"Darling, don't hit her, please !"

Her mother's too kind, but they're fighting again, and at the end, she doesn't help. Momo quivers, covering her cheek with her sweaty hands, cowering against the shaking window. Shadows dance against the transparent vibrating glass. Shadows of her parents arguing again about her own future, about the choices she couldn't make, at the end. They dance and dance and dance, hideous yet graceful under the night's veil. Her head hits the glass and, slowly, her mind drifts away, eyes unfocused on the strange kaleidoscope that the night paints just for her. Voices lull her, and she sleeps. No state, nothing, just sleep. Because nothing comes when you don't deserve it, she knows, now. So she sleeps.


	26. The thirteenth day

The thirteenth day

It's a new dawn that greets them once out of the city. Tiredness omnipresent over their foggy minds, they all stop for a minute, their breathes inadequate, irregular, but synchronized with the confused beat of their rapid hearts. Young adults, too young again to work on a heavy case like this one, all sitting confusedly on the wet grass, droplets of long forgotten morning dew soaking their clothes. Out of breath, out of sleep, out of energy, the last train was gone a long time ago, and they feared the disappearance of a lost friend. So they ran, ran more than usual, with a speed breaking their legs but fueling with an intense fire their thin hopes to see her again. That's what they did, that's what they still do, hope.

"Todoroki," Midoriya takes a big breath, sucking air through his closed throat. "you should sit for a minute."

Shouto jerks out of his thoughts and tiredly looks at an exhausted Midoriya sitting on the humid and jagged ground, shivering down to his very bones. He looks like lade out of thin glass, his pale skin contrasting against the shadows of the trees surrounding them. Shouto feels sorry for bringing everyone with him, tiring them because of his selfishness, but he shakes his head in disapproval. He's not tired, he thinks, he just needs to walk and forget about his own exhaustion, and the desire to give up hanging above his head like a Damocles sword.

"We don't have time to rest," he breathes, voice covered by smoke.

"But we can't run for now, so sit and breathe," the green-haired teenager insists, eyes breaking through the morning's vivid colors. "For me."

Midoriya's voice breaks and, under his pleading eyes, a sense of obeisance forces him to sit. So he does. The grass is humid, cold, tickling his ankles, he shivers, trying to regulate his body's temperature, but he's too tired, it seems. So he sits down silently, taking in the cold sensation that he feels so rarely. He leans down slowly, looking thoughtfully at the pinkish sky. Shades of purple, orange and blue color the slight clouds, making pastel cotton candy out of cirrus flying high in the sky. Soft filaments floating above their heads like transparent wings, announcing a bright and clear day. Not warm nor cold, just plain simple weather they can cope with.

Behind those molecular clouds and all those trees, branches and shivering leaves must hide a moon, too pale to show but not enough to disappear, fighting for dominance over the bright and proud sun, burning star conquering the day, taking over every form of life, while the moon mourns about her loss, about the only state and short time she gains, only sleep-deprived bystanders looking at her with too much tiredness to care. And what can she offer ? What can she give to those she wants to love ? Sleep. The moon can only offer sleep, maybe fear, apprehension, nightmares and, maybe, soft dreams that never last long. Behind the clouds, high in the sky, under the sun's shadow, the moon might cry, might wait for something. An eclipse, something new, a form of help, her own dawn. Shouto wants to help, wants to save, for he promised he would stay by her side. He wants to take Momo's hand and Momo's life, take her away, far from her mourning, far from her self-destruction, because she's worthy of everyone's love, respect and time. She doesn't have to bend under unwritten rules, under her parents' expectations and fiance's standards. She doesn't have to please whoever asked her to. Shouto wants to show that. He thought he already did, but not enough. And behind the clouds, far from his reach, the moon looks and shines like Momo's skin, at night. And she sadly waits for her time to come, finally. Shouto, squinting his eyes, can finally spot the moon lost in the sky. It's beautiful, discrete, and looks over them, waiting for the night. He stands up and, whipping his subtle tears away, he takes a deep breath, head spinning at the sudden rush of oxygen and blood. Midoriya stands up, too, and asks for everyone's approval to continue. They all nod, still tired but determined. Shouto doesn't understand why some of them came, not being that intimate with Momo, but he's thankful for their help and support. He had to explain the situation to all of them, all the while apologizing silently to Momo, and they all understood, friendly smiles and determined eyes. And now they're all here, running with him, making this mission theirs, early heroes' duty. He can't thank them enough, despite the uncertainty of the result. Will Momo cry ? Will she thank them ? Will she reject their help ? He winces at the last thought that crosses his mind, and he quickly shakes it away. He runs to the others. Out of so much again, they might not make it in time, they might arrive only at night, but they all run, hope hanging at their throat like loose knot of a bloody rope. Their breathes shallow, their eyes unfocused, vision blurring under the almost blinding aurora. For seconds, maybe minutes, they feel like slaves under the sun's awaken glare. Gravity becomes too much, and running hurts their legs more and more, pumping their blood faster, arteries flushing. Tiredness burning their lungs, exhaling pain, their little legs carry them out, far from the train station, far from their known territory. Shouto can only hope for her to stay in place and wait for them. But deep down, he knows, he can hear the sleeping moon's lullaby, this place isn't a fairy tale. Momo's read them all, younger, innocent. But now, she doesn't trust them anymore. And impatience can't be blamed, for a princess who never promised to stay. And just like the moon, at day, she slips away.


	27. The fourteenth day

The fourteenth night

The deadly silence hiding behind the heavy doors has been enough to scare them all. Lights switched off, the only presence of a lonely candle behind an open window showed them the desert how deserted was the usually lively house. No one, no living soul, could be heard from miles away inside the giant mansion. Breathes shallow, eyes squinting, mouth opening and closing, words long gone, they search for an answer, but none comes soon enough. And the silence that greets them might be the heaviest crime they ever had to face. They enter, pushing easily the gray metallic gates, walking as silently as possible, footsteps as light as fallen feathers, along the sandy path. The white doors of the intimidating house are wide open, but no one is here to greet them with a formal welcome, no one breathes inside the gargantuan mansion. With a common accord, they search for awhile, opening doors after doors in hope of seeing her, even them, but only the wind and the lit candle greet them. Shouto, entering the kitchen, wonders how the candle could have stayed lit while in front of an open window.

The flame at the tip of the perfumed candle dances along the frail breeze, its red and orange light too small to illuminate anything, too insignificant to show him the path. Could it burn skin ? Shouto wonders again, asking his own imagination if the flame was lit on purpose, or if its presence was as useless as theirs in this decorated maze. The only thing the candle invades is the room, with its discrete yet strong and pleasant smell. Hydragean, as written with an elegant font on the transparent pot. Curls and turns, with the -y bigger than the other letters, Shouto coughs as the omnipresent scent becomes stronger once the window is closed. He walks back against the wall facing the candle, ignoring the shadows now dancing on the white and clean wallpaper, little nightmares playing a scene he doesn't want to acknowledge. But he can't help it, and his tired state forces his mind to play tricks on his sanity. Back against the wall, shadows dancing against his pale skin, he pictures the imposing bouquets of hydragean carefully disposed on the round tables around the room, their cold yet beautiful and elegant colors piercing through the monochrome white of the wedding's room. Pale blue, pastel purple, light pink, as clear as the sun's light, celebrating the love of an unwanted couple. Sweet peas displayed on the tables too, against the walls, smaller flowers, discrete, and maybe roses, pink and red, for love and passion, to express what goes once the wedding is finished, once the doors are closed, once no one's here to listen what is done behind the thin walls of a carefully chosen hotel. He draws her from vivid memory, sculpted body covered with white lingerie, overflowed with a detailed dress as white as a newfound pearl, bright under the lights. Her dress is imposing, descending in cascade along her legs, a big crinoline neatly hidden under the waves of light satin textile. Jewels made out of white alabaster decorate her milky skin. She smiles, or maybe cries, out of sorrow or happiness, jet black hair down, eyes shining more than ever, as deep as black diamonds. A beautiful bride, sophisticated, maybe too much. He pictures it all, alone, lost in the kitchen against the white wall, vision blurred, shadows blinding him, window threatening him with a new life with her he'll never get to try. His head hurts, he sees no more, tiredness and desperation taking over his hope to see her again.

"There's no one here, Todoroki. They're out of the city by now," Izuku intrudes, his voice breaking through the silence. It seems to dissipate the ambient smell. Shouto coughs, walking in his direction. "Are you alright ? We can always search behind, their domain is quite-"

"It would be pointless."

And his voice is like a strike right through the heart, Izuku stiffens. The air seems heavier, looking like fog inside the white and decorated kitchen, its researched aesthetic too out of place. Shouto looks down, frowning, almost panting. He never looks to Midoriya. He never looks up.

"Let's wait for the police to come, we'll see after that."

It comes out cold, as cold and lonely as before, and Izuku sees him again, the Shouto that didn't care. He gulps loudly, letting go of the metallic white doorknob, closing the door silently behind him. The smell of flower isn't here anymore, and Shouto feels glad that it went away. Glad that, now, it's all gone. Glad he wouldn't have to see, hear or smell any of that again. Far from it, far from them, he feels lonely again, but loneliness isn't so bad once used to it. Izuku shakes behind him, following. They walk silently, passing through empty rooms and freezing silence, the only sound of their footsteps echoing around them. They walk for some long minutes, uncomfortable, ignoring the heavy atmosphere. And finally, they stop. Izuku breathes discretely, taking in the decor of the hall. The symmetrical place scares him, immobilizes him, the crystal chandeliers pressure on his mind and body, and the whiteness of the place scarring him more and more each passing second.

"Did you find money ?" Shouto asks, facing the front door.

"No, everything is gone."

"That's what I thought," the coldness in his voice gives out his thoughts, and for a second, Izuku truly feels disgusted. He frowns.

"It wasn't her choice !"

"It was !"

Shouto turns around abruptly. His eyes scream louder than his voice, wide open, burning through Izuku's skin. The young man backs away, taken aback. The atmosphere becomes hotter and hotter, sparks as dull as ash cascading the bicolor's left cheek. For a second, Izuku sees blue flames emanating from his left fist.

"And it still is ! She rpomised, but she left !"

"But I'm sure she fought back-"

"There's no trace of fight !" It sounds exasperated, taking Izuku for an idiot. It hurts. "It's all clean, suitcases gone, money gone, all objects of value are gone ! And- And she's gone, too, without a fight. Open your eyes Izuku, she left us."

It might be tiredness, the desperation or the disappointment hiding behind his voice, or the fear undoubtedly felt deep inside, but Izuku doesn't find his words nor his voice anymore. He simply stands there, thoughts wild, but mute.

"I know when to stop, Izuku. I know when it's gone. She didn't find back like she promised me," he lets his tears soak his cheeks. Head down, he looks at the evaporating salty water contouring his frame. It looks like smoke, transparent and untouchable, suffocating him slowly, oh so slowly. "She lied."

And just like that, flames escape his hand, slowly growing against the ground. It burns the white carpet, burns the red curtains, takes over the walls, the stairs, the doors, invading the old piano against the walls behind him, burning the short and endlessly read fairy tales on the shelves. It seems too big, engulfing with their light the entirety of the house. Slowly, surely, it burns everything. Shouto watches as it grows bigger than the candle's flame, yet the smell is different, suffocating, black smoke taking over his vision. And why does it feel so cold ? He feels a hand taking his elbow, running away, out, he hears gasps and screams, sirens and alarms, and soon, what remained of the Yaoyorozus disappears under his own creation.


End file.
